


How To Stop Your Flatmate Pestering You About Your Sex Life (And End Up Having One)

by kleiothemuse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Awkwardness, Bad Ideas, Bondage, Dubious Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Rimming, Sex Toys, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Violence, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2579414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleiothemuse/pseuds/kleiothemuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John annoys Sherlock by blaming him for his (John's) disastrous sex life while ridiculing his (Sherlock's) non-existent one. In order to shut John up for good, Sherlock decides to fabricate a very much existent sex life for himself. </p><p>Of course, the plan backfires horribly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which John brings up a matter Sherlock would rather not discuss

**Author's Note:**

> Now betaed by the lovely **sideris** whom I love and adore! :)

 

”I'm not having this conversation with you, John,” I tell him.

And I mean it. I always mean what I say. I see little point in saying something I don't mean. Including when I mean to lie.

”We've discussed the matter quite often enough. Exhaustively, in fact. On at least seven separate occasions. On most of which you have been far more sober than you are now.”

”Maybe eight is the charm, then,” John offers, smirking like the stubborn idiot that he is.

”Please. There is no charm in _eight_.”

The smirk grows into a vicious smile.

”You don't even know how the proverb goes, do you, Sherlock?”

”Irrelevant. It's three or seven or some other 'magical' number. Basically all it means is that people are unnaturally fond of repetition. I'm not one of them.”

”No, you really aren't...” John says very quietly. Very meaningfully. ”But fine. Won't bring it up again. You just keep denying you have needs - very _human_ needs, I might add - just like everybody else. Needs you can't just will away, or wank away, or whatever it is that you do. But we're not having that conversation again.” He mimics zipping his lips. ”Won't say another word.”

I get up from the desk, where I had been sitting quite comfortably when John wobbled in with his malt-heavy breath and his inane questions, grab my laptop with me and head for the armchair. I take a moment, settling into my chair and positioning the computer on my lap, before I tell him the obvious. For the eighth, charming time.

”John. I'm not every.”

John is still standing by the desk, leaning heavily on his elbows and needing all the support the hard surface can provide. I turn to watch his eyes slide shut beneath his knitted brows, then open again slowly, apparently in the hope of blinking his inebriated mind back to clarity. 

But all that comes out of his mouth is, ”Every?”

”Yes, John. I'm not _every_ ,” I repeat. Showing truly remarkable patience in the face of sheer idiocy, I might add. ”Everyone. Everybody. Every Tom, Dick, or damned Harry.”

I take a deep breath before I yield to the temptation of using some other appallingly humdrum turn of phrase. Then I enunciate very carefully, so that even the dullest pencil right at the back of the box will hear me.

”I - am - not - normal - John.”

John rubs his palm over his face, then sighs exhaustedly.

”Yes, I'm well aware of that, Sherlock, thank you. Sorry for choosing my own words.”

The fourth pint of bitter on John's breath fills the sitting room, mingled with the disappointment of a date gone wrong. It is violently obvious that it hasn't been her. It's him. It's always him.

The poor woman must have been bored out of her tiny mind having to listen to him drone on about the damp weather, having to watch him open the doors, pull out the chairs, over-tip the waiter, be the perfectly boring gentleman. Why he chooses to hide his passionate and so delightfully adventurous nature under endless layers of sheer boredom and hideous flannel shirts with the buttons done all the way up (why all the way up?), is as annoying to me as it is off-putting to his array of girlfriends.

”I take it the date with the lawyer wasn't a screaming success?”

”Oh, I don't know. There was some screaming.” John nods his head. Or possibly just lets it slump against his chest. ”The last thing she screamed to me was that I should go and find the difference between fact and fiction, and then fuck myself over it. Or on it. Possibly with it. Something to that effect.”

”Rude.”

”I thought so, too. And she was an English teacher, not a lawyer.”

”Somehow that makes it worse.”

”Yeah.”

I refrain from asking, what piece of fiction had provoked this sudden outburst of hers. Literary debates have never been able to hold my interest. 

So, instead I say, ”Starting to see why I don't bother with such matters?”

”Sort of.” John is silent for a while, and I have high hopes that the conversation has met its timely end. The hour is late, there are still a couple of internet searches I need to make before I can continue writing up the results of my experiment, which John so rudely interrupted. The slices of brain which I managed to procure from the ever-helpful Molly won't stay fresh forever, should I need to repeat my analysis.

And just when I think myself free to return to my brain tissue, John carries on.

”But don't you sometimes think you're missing out on something? Don't you have, I don't know... needs?”

”No. And yes.”

”Yes?”

”Of course I have needs, John. We wouldn't be having this little chat - again - if I didn't have the need to breathe, for instance.”

”Yeah. Cheers to that.” John lets out yet another sigh that turns into a beer-reeking burp. ”But even though you think you're above it all, above this whole sodding _normal_ world, there must be something inside you, something that needs more than just... something. Oh, god. I don't know. Forget it.”

It's almost adorable, the way his intoxicated mind tries to steer the matter away from himself and towards anyone else – which, of course, in the confines of our flat, means me. 

He's been turned down, his masculinity called into question, and what does he do the moment he sets his foot over the threshold? He launches a drunken attack on _me_ for neglecting to want something apparently ”everybody” wants: a deep, meaningful relationship with another a human being. Or possibly just intercourse. (Both interpretations appear valid in this context.)

I try to point out that I already have _him_ as a friend - which, in itself, is a new and exciting social arrangement to me, and that it's still early days to tell whether it's one that I wish to continue on a permanent basis. And the longer this conversation lasts, the murkier the future of that arrangement becomes.

However, it seems our friendship is just another part of my pulling him into the dark, dank, lonely pit of ”confirmed bachelorhood”; a term which seems to bear some deeper meaning to John.

”You're not normal,” the suicide-dater sums up as he finally dares to abandon the stronghold of the desk and slouches into his own chair, right across from me. ”And to hell with the rest of us poor, ordinary buggers.”

All in all, I'm starting to get rather annoyed with his accusatory tone of voice. It's time I deal the whole matter its death blow, and bury it safely under layers of don't-ask-don't-tell. John is a soldier, after all, he should be familiar with the concept.

”I don't mean that I'm extraordinary,” I reply, ”which I am, of course, but regarding these...”

I make a hasty and impatient gesture with my hand.

”...these sorts of things, these _needs,_ I must say my tastes aren't...”

My hand does another dance through the air, a time-honoured means of signalling the loss of words. I try not to overdo it, although John's too drunk to notice anything more subtle.

”My tastes are _not_ _of the norm_ , you might say.”

Yes. That will silence him, I do believe.

John lets out a prolonged ”Ah”, then rolls his eyes in a most annoyingly dramatic way.

It takes him a while to rearrange himself. And it takes me not nearly as long to realise what he's doing.

Of course. It is the Good Doctor Approach, as advised in all the proper textbooks on bedside manners: chin pressed down, brows lifted high up, hands folded neatly in his lap, and his voice deep and calm, every word carefully chosen and considered, as he starts his lecture on how things _really_ are - which he knows best, of course, because he is _a doctor_. It would be more convincing, though, were he not pissed as a newt.

”You do know, that when it comes to matters of, of...”

Now it's John's turn to do the ritual hand waving, but, of course, in a more moderate, _doctor_ -like manner.

”...of a _sexual_ nature, there really is no 'normal' any more. People are actually pretty open to different... avenues of... pleasure.”

I nearly laugh out loud hearing John swallow that last word. Man of the world, he is, educating the Victorian relic that he conceives me to be in the many and fantastic ways of sexual pleasure!

”Please. I can tell you haven't travelled any avenues tonight. Or for the last nine weeks.”

”Six.”

”Nine.”

”Fine, seven.”

”No, it's been nine weeks since you've been intimate with a woman. Shading a round ten, actually, if we carry on arguing about this for much longer.”

Now John’s voice rises along with his eyebrows, and he shakes his head so violently I fear he may vomit.

”Oh, fuck off, Sherlock,” he spits. Yes, there's actual spittle, though John's sitting too far from me for it to hit me anything but metaphorically. ”This from a man who has never had any kind of a relationship with anyone, and only leaves the house for bloody murder!”

With due indignation, I tut at him. ”Only if the case seems worth my while. The amount of blood involved bears no significance. And as for the other matter, I thought I covered that conclusively enough with 'I'm not every'.” Then, too irritated to consider what I'm about to say and too eager to put an end to this little chat of ours, I add, ”I have a very specific set of preferences.”

”Oh, you mean your...” There's an audible, almost theatrical swallow. ”Your sexual preferences?”

It's almost endearing to hear him talk about my sexual _anything_ , as I've never even considered that I might possess a sexuality, nor has it ever intrigued me enough to attempt to define one for myself.

”John. Let's not.”

”You know, I do understand about these things,” he persists. ”When my sister first came out, I-”

Oh, how typical of John to think ”preference” is about gender. How utterly mundane. There are really only just two options, after all: the one or the other - or a combination of both. And I care not either way.

At this point, I'm not just annoyed any more. I'm insulted. It’s time to stop wasting precious time and put an end to this conversation.

”No, John. I didn't mean boys-or-girls. I meant that my particular avenue of pleasure interjects with the somewhat darker alley of pain.”

That shuts him up, finally. That, and the compelling need to urinate, as evidenced by his knees which have been drawing closer and closer together for the past twelve minutes. He leaves the room without another word - that is, if one doesn't count the odd grunting noises issuing from his throat, which might indicate either a shock-induced aphasia or lager-induced nausea.

When John returns from the loo, I'm already sitting in my room, the door closed and the laptop opened.

I have a plan. It’s simple and straightforward, much like the target himself. And most importantly of all, it will shut John up for good.

 


	2. In which Sherlock sets the stage and makes some arrangements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now betaed by the lovely **sideris** whom I love and adore! :)

 

The items I ordered online arrive two days later, as advertised, all neatly packaged in a big brown parcel with no distinguishing markings on top. First, I choose the order in which to introduce them into the apartment, then I begin setting the selected paraphernalia carefully in place.

For a moment, I consider giving Mrs Hudson a word of caution, to ensure that she won't accidentally clear the items away before John has had ample time to find them. But I fear she would not approve of the plan, and harsh words would undoubtedly be exchanged, some of which might find their way into John's ears, and thus the whole endeavour would be in ruins. Hence I decide to keep the scheme to myself and the items out of Mrs Hudson's prying eyes, as much as that's possible, as that dear, bothersome woman gets absolutely everywhere.

Funnily enough, John crosses paths with the first item less than an hour after I have placed it half-hidden between the sofa cushions.

I bite my lip as I watch him do the peculiar dance of ”trying to sit comfortably on a whip”. After a long struggle, he pulls it out, studies it carefully - the thick handle, the bundle of leather fringes - though, of course, all the while appearing very much aloof. As if this sort of thing happens quite regularly in the life of John ”man of the world” Watson. Then he offers it to me.

”For an experiment, is it?”

I glance at the item, but refuse to take it off his hands.

”No,” I reply very calmly and with no promise of further explanation in my voice.

Oh, the look on his face! Marvellous, simply marvellous. I have to turn my back and lean over the laptop to keep my enjoyment to myself.

I listen to the silence for a while, as he stares at the whip in his hand, his thoughts revolving exactly in the direction I've intended. Then there's the quiet rattle of a hard leather shaft being placed on a wooden table by a shaky hand, then an audible swallow. John pulls out his mobile and starts typing something into the search engine. The acronym is only four letters long, but it takes him five tries to get those letters in the right order.

”Oh, and by the way,” I say after a while of listening to his fumbling with the phone, ”I have decided to propose an arrangement to correct the matter we discussed the other night.”

”Right,” he says, eyes still on the search results. ”What’s that, then?”

”Sex.” I pause and wait for John to stop coughing and steady his breathing. And pick up his mobile off the floor. ”That is, my sex life. Or rather the complete lack thereof, as you so discreetly pointed out.”

It takes a while for John to compose himself, and even then, it’s not much of a composition. At least he sets down his phone, thereby keeping it from coming to any more harm.

”Um, excuse me? You’re proposing… what exactly?”

”An arrangement. An understanding, if you will,” I reply while I continue to browse the photo gallery on a site that has the audacity to call itself _The Erotic Emporium._ I confess, I find nothing even vaguely ”erotic” about its contents, but the pictures might well provide fodder for the second phase of my scheme. I file them away for future use.

”The exact details are still to be finalised,” I continue after a moment's pause. ”I should imagine it would include regular intercourse, oral as well as anal, on a weekly or bi-weekly basis - depending on my caseload, of course - accompanied with some bondage and discipline.”

”...d-discipline?”

”Yes, just a bit of slapping about at first but likely to turn rougher at some point. It usually does, doesn’t it?”

I smile at him knowingly. However, he doesn’t appear to be quite as knowing, after all.

”I - I really couldn’t say,” is all John manages to mutter. He is silent for a good long while, then repeats, quite unnecessarily: ”So you’re proposing… an arrangement?”

”Hmm, yes. To plug the gap, so to speak.”

The pun is not unintended, but John seems too worked up to appreciate it. His gaze wanders around the room, as if there were a tapestry of answers just hanging on the walls, if only he knew where to look.

”And have you given any thought as to who...” His voice trails off. Only after clearing his throat twice, John ventures to continue: ”I mean, who the other party in this arrangement might be?”

”Well, it's obvious, really.”

”No. No, it isn't. No. Really not.”

”It is to me.”

”Then humour me, Sherlock.”

”Well, I will need someone who's available on a regular basis. Reasonably attractive. Hygienic. Open to suggestions and willing to experiment, so someone who's a bit adventurous would do nicely. And I suspect some knowledge of the human anatomy wouldn't go amiss, either.”

John just stares, his face completely blank. I wonder if I have forgotten something vital from my list, something _normal_ people wouldn't forget. But no, the requirements are precisely those suggested by Fuckbuddy.com, a highly acclaimed expert in these matters.

”So, do you have any plans for tomorrow evening?” I ask, after sufficient time has passed for John's inferior brain to process the information.

”Plans? No. No. No plans. No. Why?”

I let out a frustrated sigh.

”Have I not just explained the arrangement I intend to make? You did listen, didn't you, John?”

He nods, but somehow I'm not convinced he has, indeed, been listening.

”So?” I ask, getting slightly irritated.

”Nothing,” says John, finally snapping out of his impression of a wax doll. ”It's fine. I mean... fine. I’m just gonna pop out for a bit. Now.”

And he gets up, fetches his jacket, and leaves. I can hear him almost trip in the stairs, then find his balance again. The front door shuts with a bang.

I take a moment to congratulate myself on such a well-thought-out scheme. Nothing can possibly go wrong. After all, as one astute commentator on Fuckbuddy.com put it, there can be no shame in listening to our bodies' needs and then striving to fulfil them accordingly.

And all my body needs is that I stop being asked inane questions about sex.

 

///

 

The second item I fish out of the brown parcel is a ball gag. It is a shiny red silicone ball with black straps, which supposedly hold it firmly in place “for his or her pleasure”. I’m left wondering, whether the manufacturer is referring to the one wearing the thing or the one making him/her wear it.

Initially I place it in my bedside drawer, but on second thought, I move it in the desk in the sitting room. John's just not inquisitive enough to visit my bedroom. Not yet.

Sadly, I'm not present the next morning when he does find it. But I can tell the minute I walk into the sitting room that he has. There's the hastily closed desk drawer, for one. Then, there is also the first crumpled, then re-opened newspaper which John is doggedly holding in his hands though clearly not reading. And lastly and most evidently, there's the straight line of his shoulders, tense enough to cost one a finger or two if one hazarded to rub them.

He says nothing, but I can hear his little brain rattling away. The newspaper is discarded, unread, and John mutters something about going out to get the papers.

When he passes me to fetch his shoes, I ask him if he would make himself scarce for a couple of hours that evening. I can tell the image of the ball gag is vivid in his mind, and he very nearly opens up the topic for discussion. But not quite.

”An experiment?” John tries again, as he's doing up his shoelaces.

”No.”

”Oh. Right. Visitors, then?”

I say nothing, leave the deductions to him. But judging by the disastrous state of the shoelaces, his mind is too knotted up to be functioning on the level required for deducing even the simplest of things (such as, which way the little rabbit is supposed to run again). So I decide to throw down a few more breadcrumbs for him to follow.

”It is someone I have an arrangement with.”

”Arrangement?” he repeats. ”As in, _the arrangement_?”

I nod.

”Oh. I see. Hmm. O-kay.”

He's looking, if not angry, then at least a bit upset, or something to that effect. He is definitely not happy, that much even I can tell. But I cannot imagine why. So I do the logical thing and ask him.

”I thought you'd be pleased, John. That's what you suggested, after all. That I be more like everybody else?”

”Yes. Right. So. Good on you.”

I merely shrug. Honestly, I was expecting a more enthusiastic response, after all the work I've put into this when I could have been doing something far more intellectually titillating.

”Is it anyone I know?” he asks, starting afresh with the laces, yet again.

”No.” I pause, waiting for him to get the bunny around the tree before I continue (honestly, how can a doctor not be capable of tying his own shoes?). ”Of course, I can't be sure until tonight.”

”Wait. Sherlock, are you saying you haven't met before?”

”Only on the website. Quite attractive, I should imagine, by popular standards. Of course, it is always hard to tell from a digital photo. Too many filters readily available these days.”

John remains silent, his mind processing the facts with such intensity that I can almost see  thought-bubbles form over his head. He's clearly pondering whether to ask delicately if there's any monetary compensation involved, or to shout straight out that I can't possibly be serious about having it off with a prostitute. For a military man, he can be such a prude sometimes.

In the end, he appears to take the road of feigned indifference.

”And you want to meet... them alone?” The fact that he chooses to omit the gender of the visitor tickles me. ”Don’t you think it might be, I don't know, a bit dangerous?”

”Dangerous? I shouldn't think so, no,” I say conversationally. ”She seemed quite experienced in these matters.”

It is blatantly obvious that that is not the pronoun he expected to hear. Interesting.

”Right,” he says, gathering himself. “Glad to hear.”

”And there's always a safe-word, isn't there.”

John leaves the flat with the still undone laces stuffed hastily inside his shoes and with the palest face I have ever witnessed. And in my line of work, I look at a lot of corpses.

He doesn't return until late in the evening, which is a shame, because I hoped he would get a glimpse of my visitor - Sheanna? Brianna? something of the kind. But sadly, all my efforts go to waste. When the woman arrives, there is no one apart from Mrs Hudson in the house, and naturally she assumes the caller to be just another client.

I went to the trouble of finding a ”visitor” that would suit John's taste, as much as I can tell by his former girlfriends, and the man himself doesn’t even bother to be there to appreciate my efforts.

I am so disappointed I play the violin intentionally badly until a string breaks.

 

///

 

The next day I can pop out quite certain that John's curiosity will have him rummaging through my bedroom while I'm away.

This time there will be no cigarettes or opiates for him to find. Instead, I've left four smooth black ropes hanging from the sides of my bed, all very conveniently placed for tying up a person's wrists and ankles to the bed.

There is also a rather heavy scent of inexpensive perfume in the room, which I hope won't evaporate before John has a chance to sniff at it properly.

And should he pry open any drawers, he is sure to find the half-emptied tube of lubrication, some fairly sizeable dildos and a pair of nipple clamps. I still haven’t quite figured out why use clamps, when surely a twisting motion is the most effective method of stimulation. Puzzling.

Still, there they are, all tucked away in the most obvious place for John to look.

 

///

 

”Are you... I mean, any visitors coming? Here? Tonight?”

I can see it takes an awful lot out of him just to ask the question, and I can't help but wonder what it would do to him if I answered differently.

”No, no visitors,” I reply without raising my eyes from the computer screen. I'm in the middle of reading a rather fascinating article on the life cycle of a rare species of beetle found only in one small corner of Bolivia, roughly the size of Sussex. And ironically enough, it might hold the key to solving a string of drug-related killings in, yes, Sussex.

”OK. Right.” John slumps in the armchair, tries to come up with something natural-looking to do with his hands, and fails. ”Well, you just let me know if you need me to clear off, yeah?”

”Thank you, John. That's most considerate of you. But to tell you the truth, I found myself a bit bored last night.”

”Bored?” The way John keeps fidgeting in his chair is absolutely priceless. ”No need for safe-words, then?”

”Sadly, no.”

It is simply too delicious to watch him shift and squirm as if the old armchair was suddenly stuffed with needles and pins. He is surely dying to ask the question, but the words refuse to come.

”However, if there’s someplace you could go _tomorrow_ night,” I say after a while of observing his highly entertaining fidgeting, ”it would be much appreciated.”

”Yes. Sure. I’ll just… yes. Of course.”

”Good. I'm very optimistic about this one.”

”Ah. It's... it's a different person, then?”

”Mm, yes. Maybe I will even have use for that safe-word. How does ‘herring’ strike you?”

”Salty?”

”Yes, you're right. Might be best to stick to more traditional ones. ‘Red’?”

”Yeah. I'm sure that's... Yeah.”

”’Red’ it is then. Thank you, John.”

Although John is looking as morose as an average teenager, I, on the other hand, am tremendously pleased with myself.

With a smile on my face and a song in my heart, I return to my beetles.

 

///

 

The next night, when my second visitor arrives, I make certain John is still present at the flat, and that he is the one to open the door. (I myself being terribly inconveniently in the bathroom at that exact moment.)

I can hear the door being opened downstairs, a short change of mumbled words, and then the two sets of footsteps on the stairs. I wait for them to get in the upstairs hall before making my entrance.

”Hello. You must be Toby,” I say with my most charming smile. ”Sherlock. So glad you could make it.”

The young man takes one look at me, then turns his gaze back to John, his mind clearly trying to do the math.

”I'm sorry,” I say quickly. ”I see that you must have mistaken John here for me. I hope you're not terribly disappointed.”

I give him a little smile, putting in it just enough coyness for it to be both apologetic and flirty.

”No. Fuck, no,” he breathes, the sheer lust embarrassingly clear in his voice.

I give Toby a quick sweep and decide he is 24 years old, still lives with his parents, both originally Scottish, who aren’t as well-off as young Toby would like people to think, and who take great pride in knowing that their son is gay but are blissfully ignorant about his being a lazy-arse man-child, whose only ambitions in life consist of getting hammered and getting fucked, without having to worry about such mundane affairs as work, bills, or rent. He has also shaved his pubic hair no more than 12 hours ago.

”When you didn't wanna send me a photo, I thought you might be, you know, whatever. But now...”

I feel I'm being given a once-over, as well, but I doubt his assessment involves anything more sophisticated than the roundness of my behind and the sharpness of my cheekbones.

”Fucking hell, you're right fit, aren't you,” he says, as he moves closer to me. ”You could've warned me, you know.”

I must say, I find it oddly titillating to have someone looking at me like that. Not that it makes any difference whether he fancies me or not, but it does give a certain sense of well-being to know that this reasonably attractive young man finds me so desirable, and is willing to engage in a number of sexual activities with me. It is not an entirely unpleasant feeling.

Still, I'm finding it increasingly difficult to feign interest, when faced with the young man's idiotic outfit that simply screams BDSM: leather vest, chains and whatnot, not to mention biker boots, which really don't go all that well with the Oyster card sticking from the back pocket of his well-worn designer jeans.

But I must endure it, for John's sake. Yes. For John.

It is at this moment that I happen to glance at John, who has stood in the doorway like a statue for the past three and a half minutes.

John is definitely not looking pleased. No, I'd say he is eyeing us with nothing short of intent to kill. Why? It doesn’t make sense. This cannot possibly be a sudden case of homophobia, not after the evident shock he displayed with my last visitor, who turned out to be female. But he is clearly bothered by this man, or the fact that he is here, or the fact that he is here for me...

No. Is he…? Surely not. He can’t be.

Is he _jealous_?

”John?” I say questioningly, and try to catch his eye.

”Yeah?” John replies automatically, but still not quite out of his murderous trance.

However, hearing John's voice appears to make my visitor realise the implications of his excitement over seeing me, and he turns to look at John apologetically.

”Sorry, mate. I didn't mean I was, like, disappointed to see you open the door or anything... And Sherlock didn't say there'd be another bloke. Not that I mind, you know, it's just that I...”

But John cuts in to stop the young man in his tracks, his hands waving in front of him like windscreen wipers. ”No, no. No... no. It's just the two of you. I'm... I was just on my way out, actually. So there. Have, um, fun.”

As John staggers out with the wrong jacket for the weather and quite possibly with no money or keys, I'm left alone with the young man, whose erection is not only noticeable but also quite tangible, as he moves even closer and presses his groin against my thigh.

”Such posh clothes, too,” Tony continues, his hand smoothing the sleeve of my jacket, feeling the fabric he could never hope to purchase, not with his parents' income. ”Makes a bloke feel under-dressed...”

”Then let me help you get _un_ dressed,” I say with a wry smile, as I push his (imitation) leather vest off his shoulders. ”Make yourself comfortable.”

”Oh, I'll be comfortable as soon as I get you out of that suit and into a condom.”

Suddenly I'm not feeling all that comfortable anymore.

”Shall we take things a bit slower, what do you say?” I try, smiling through the urge to knee him in the groin. “We have all night, after all.”

But the pressure on my thigh is definitely not easing. If anything, I think that any moment now, his penis might pop right through his trousers and brutally attack me. The smell of his hair product is an unexpected combination of coconut and menthol. It is simply sickening.

”I know we sorta agreed on me bottoming, yeah?” Donny says, his hand travelling up and down my still very much (and well) dressed body. ”But now that I see you, I'm starting to think I'd might want me some of that, after all.”

And yes, to drill his point home, he grinds his pelvis against me while his hand cups my arse.

”I promise you, Sher, I'll fuck you like you've never been fucked before.”

”How very right you are, um, you,” I say, and that's all I have time to say, before he puts his very moist lips on mine and traps me between his hungry mouth and the wall.

It is, of course, at this precise point in the proceedings that John chooses to return.

”Sorry, forgot my... my... my...”

He takes one quick look at us: I’m pinned breathless against the wall, while the young man, whose name might be Teddy, is ruining my perfectly good shirt in his youthful haste. John averts his eyes like he has seen something utterly distasteful. Which, by the state of my shirt, is not far from truth.

”Sorry,” he says shortly. “I'm interrupting. Of course I am. Sorry. So sorry. I'll just... Um, yeah.”

And without whatever it was he came back to get, John is gone.

”He's cool with this, right?” Terry asks, taking a blessed break from vandalising my attire. ”I mean, I don't wanna, you know, come between you two.”

I don't understand what he is implying, and I tell him so. Then I pull him in for another sloppy kiss, which seems to resolve the matter quite satisfactorily.

Thanks to John's unexpected return, I estimate I will have to endure at least another ten minutes of ‘snogging’ before I can send the boy on his way.

Oddly enough, though, the more I think of John and the look on his face when he walked in on us, the less invasive the boy’s groping hands and vigorous tongue become. In fact, I find that if I concentrate entirely on John - his eyes widened, his mouth opened, a mixture of surprise and envy - the treatmentto which I'm being subjected is starting to feel not only tolerable, but actually rather nice. Yes. Very nice. Really very nice.

So nice in fact, that I'm starting to think it will require nearer to a fifteen minutes' wait before I can have him leave safely. Without being seen by John.

John. I’m doing this for John.

Yes.

Twenty minutes should do it.

 

///

 

The next day, as I come home late, I find John has been in my bed. The trace of his smell is unmistakable, as are the few greyish hairs left on my pillow. He's tried the ropes, that much is clear, but hasn't been able to tie but one of them around his wrist: the creases indicate a standard knot, would've expected something more from a soldier. The other rope he has just grabbed and held tight in his hand: so tight, in fact, that I can pull his fingerprints off of it. The ropes at the foot of the bed remain untouched.

I detect no bodily fluids on the sheets, apart from a small amount of saliva on the pillow case, suggesting he's been lying face down on the bed. There's nothing that would indicate arousal, though.

My findings leave me unexpectedly confused. John's behaviour last night when seeing me with the boy - whose name escaped me even before he did - was certainly peculiar. On one hand I'm merely pleased that he now has to endure the same ordeal I go through with every woman he dates: of being subjected to their sucking each other's faces off and using that vulgar, disgustingly _affectionate_ language in public.

But John didn't look simply ill at ease; he looked positively mad.

And yet, he waited for me to leave the flat before crawling into my bed to test the bonds. So, is that it, then? Does he want a bit of bondage fun, as well? With whom?

The uncertainty is very unsettling. Stupid human emotions! How is one to interpret such a chaotic nebula of conflicting signs and reactions?

Instead of changing the linen, though, I find myself lying naked between the sheets. It has been a long while since I’ve last yielded to the lowly temptation of pleasuring myself, but I’m not one to deny it is a necessity, although thankfully less frequent and more easily suppressible than most of the other needs of this physical vessel.

Still, I’m mildly surprised by the readiness of my erection, when the only stimulus present is the lingering scent of my nosy flatmate in the bed sheets.

I start the exercise with little enthusiasm, but despite the evident arousal, it seems to be building up to nothing. I toss and turn in the bed, trying to get into a more comfortable position, and finally end up on my stomach. The mechanics of masturbation are slightly more difficult in this position, but on the other hand, the mattress provides a nice source of friction, and I hardly have to touch myself to climax.

The resulting mess, however, simply sickens me. I pull the sheets off and throw them in the corner.

I spend the night wrapped in a blanket, on a bare mattress.

 


	3. In which Sherlock makes an error and John goes slightly mad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: Non-consensual/Dubious consent, Threat of rape (but not really!), Non-consensual bondage and Violence (but not much!)**
> 
> Now betaed by the lovely **sideris** whom I love and adore! :)

 

The days after my second visitor are spent in near total silence. The riding crop, which I have placed on top of a pile of books goes seemingly unnoticed. The condoms, which I have filled with 10 millilitres of watered-down hand lotion, are taken out with the rest of rubbish. Even the dildos are simply taken out of the sink, where I have left them to soak in soapy water, rinsed off and left to dry out on a tea towel.

Not a single comment from John. Nothing.

In fact, John barely acknowledges my presence, let alone bothers to answer me, even when I'm clearly stating something of importance to which he really ought to pay the utmost attention and which he should file for future reference. Instead I'm treated like a _persona non grata_ , without so much as a hello or a cup of tea.

After two whole days of silence, John finally opens his mouth. But even then, it is only to produce words with absolutely no sense or meaning.

”I have to know, Sherlock,” he says. His voice sounds odd, as it breaks the silence that has fallen over our flat. Not unlike thunder, suddenly tearing through the still air on a summer’s day. Except that it’s November, and I’m hardly prone to poetics.

”Know what?” I enquire without raising my eyes from the paper I’ve been reading with my morning tea (which I was forced to make myself).

”I'm sorry, I know it's private and you're really not one to share, but I just got to know. Please.”

The words come surprisingly calmly, like John's asking to have a taste of my brew (most certainly not). We are at the breakfast table, granted, but somehow I doubt he's gagging for a cuppa.

”You will have to be a bit more specific, John,” I say, not letting him off that easily. If he truly wants what I think he wants, then he will damn well have to be able to say it.

”I just want to know, _why_?”

Huh. I must say, I’m surprised. This is not the question I expected. Honestly, this is precisely why I enjoy having him around: even after all this time, the roads his menial mind chooses to travel never cease to astound me.

”Why what? Why have sex?” I counter him. ”Do correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t it you who suggested that I should do what _normal_ people do? I thought you’d be pleased I took your advice, for once.”

”No.” John shakes his head. ”Why them? Why pick up strangers on the internet?”

”Where else would one find strangers these days? You can't seriously be suggesting I’d be better off scouring the local pubs?”

”No, ‘cause that’s where I am, most nights. Getting turned down by half the clientele.”

”There you have it. The internet provides a far better chance of finding a sexual partner, not to mention a wider selection.”

”So, that's what it is to you, a one-stop shop for all your sexual needs? And you're fine with that?”

”Yes.” That's really the most adequate answer anyone could possibly give to the question, but somehow it seems to displease John. ”What?”

”Is this about having a death wish, Sherlock? Because you do realise how self-destructive this is, don't you? Sleeping with strangers, especially when there's all that rough stuff involved.”

” _Rough stuff_?” I can't help but snigger.

”You know perfectly well what I mean. I'm... concerned.”

”Concerned - or jealous?”

”Jealous of what?” he huffs. ”What do I care if you have your little _Fifty Shades_ sessions with whoever. I'm just worried that...”

”Look, John. I know,” I interrupt him, letting his bad grammar go unnoticed, just this once. ”Of course I do. And you'll be glad to hear I've already taken steps to correct the matter. All you have to do is ask.”

That seems to perk him up.

”Ask? Ask for what?”

”Those fifty shades and sessions you're so keen on having. Although I can only promise you the one.”

”What?” John looks baffled at first, then starts shaking his head rapidly. ”No, Sherlock, that's the name of the... never mind. What exactly are you promising?”

”All in good time. You'll have to ask first.”

There's a pause, which some might describe as meaningful, but I’ve always found that simply stating that something has a meaning doesn't actually give any reference as to what that meaning might be, making the description, therefore, meaningless.

John sits down by the kitchen table, pushes the dishes away to clear himself a place to set his crossed hands. I pretend to concentrate on nibbling my dry piece of toast, as if I truly got some satisfaction from the act of digesting it and wanted to prolong the pleasure. When I look up, I notice his knuckles are so bright white, there's really no room for misinterpretation there.

”So, you want me to ask if I could, somehow, have an arrangement of my own?”

”Hmm-mm.”

”Right.”

Now the knuckles aren't even white any more. They’re turning a curious shade of yellow that makes me wonder if it's possible to self-inflict necrosis simply by holding one's hands crossed too tightly for too long. If there's a precedent, it would most likely be by a member of some religious order.

”You wouldn't care to be a bit more specific, would you?”

”Not really, no.”

”So I just ask, right? That's it? Then you'll... Then it's all set?”

I nod very solemnly.

”Fine.” John clears his throat one more time. ” _Please_.”

All I give him in return is a quick smile and a nod, before returning to my breakfast.

John seems hardly satisfied with that, but doesn't pursue the matter any further.

I, on the other hand, spend the rest of the breakfast pondering, whether John would prefer to be the dominant or the submissive party. On the surface, the latter appears to be the obvious choice: at least he does take direct orders from me without undue fuss. Still, there's also the fact that he is an army captain to be considered, used to handing out orders as much as he is used to taking them (how on earth those are not mutually exclusive, I shall never fully understand).

Then again, he did say 'please'.

 

///

 

Later that night, when John staggers home from the pub, the smell of Dutch courage lingering in the air around him, I come to greet him at the door to our flat, and hand him the bondage hood.

John hasn't had more than two pints and whisky chasers, but it takes him longer than it should to figure out what the piece of black leather is for.

”It goes over your head,” I explain very calmly, as if addressing a feeble-minded child.

John pushes the door shut behind him, takes off his jacket and hangs it a bit shakily on its hook. Then he kicks the shoes off his feet and opens the top buttons of his shirt. It is all done without any discernible haste to allow his mind the time to process my request.

When he is finished, he walks up to me, takes the hood from my hand and studies it.

”What's the zip for?”

This is what he notices? The _zip_?

”Honestly, John,” I sigh. ”It's for your mouth, and it stays closed until I open it. Is that clear?”

John is still staring at the thing as if he can’t believe such things as bondage hoods exist, despite the fact that he is presently looking at one. He turns it in his hands, discovers the two straps and buckles at the back meant to keep the thing in place. He tests the top to confirm that, apart from the zip for the mouth and two tiny holes for the nose, there really are no openings. The hood is intended to cover the whole head of its wearer.

”Where are the eye holes?”

”There aren't any. You will be blind and silent, John. How hard can that be to understand? Now, you wanted to be included in this arrangement, so put that on. And do shut up already.”

I’m hardly surprised but all the more pleased to see John do as he is told and put the hood on. He struggles a bit to get his nose in the right place, then he takes a few deep breaths through his nostrils to make sure he won't suffocate. I reach behind him to fasten the straps at the back of his head.

“Now, walk.”

I place my hand firmly on his shoulder and guide him through the kitchen and into my bedroom. We come to a halt by my bed.

”I'm going to undress you now,” I inform him, as I start to undo his shirt buttons.

John lets out a soft gasp, but to his credit, he doesn't try to say a word. He simply stands there, rigid as a post, and lets me take off his shirt, then trousers and socks. He is wearing tight, navy blue pants, which compliment quite nicely his firm buttocks and strong thighs, so I decide to leave them on. Also, removing them this early on might be enough to tip him over the edge and into panic, which doesn’t appear to be all that far away anyway, judging by his increasingly rapid breathing.

“It’s all right, John,” I say, placing my hand on his bare shoulder reassuringly. “Just relax.”

However, my touch doesn’t appear to be doing anything to calm him, quite the opposite. John flinches from the contact as if it burns him, and I have to grab him by the waist to keep him from stumbling over.

This brings our bodies quite close to each other. Considering his lack of clothing, I’m closer to another human body than I have ever been, I think. The fact that he can't see me allows me to study him in detail: I see the muscular yet scarred build of a soldier; I feel the softness of his stomach, which is gradually turning into a tummy now that his regiment days are over, and the roundness of his behind, which presses against my hip.

There's an odd chill running through me as I notice - truly notice - John's body for the first time.

I have to take a step back and remind myself of the purpose of tonight, before I can continue.

”I'm going to tie you up now,” I tell him. ”The bed is right in front of you. I want you to kneel on it.”

John takes a shaky step forward, then stops.

”No,” he says, his voice muffled by the mask.

”Excuse me?”

”No,” he repeats, then starts fumbling with the hood's straps in an attempt to pull it off. ”I'm not wearing this. If you want to spank me or whatever the hell it is you intend to do, then you're damn well going to have look me in the face when you do it. I want this damn thing off, NOW!”

'Surprised' is not enough to describe my current state. 'Flabbergasted', maybe? 'Shocked', definitely.

”John, you're clearly very upset with me for some reason,” I say, without offering to help him with the hood. ”And as this falls in the realm of feelings, you must know I have absolutely no idea what that reason might be. I'm only doing what you asked.”

Even without my assistance, John manages to yank the hood off, and with unnecessary force he throws it at my feet.

”Save it, Sherlock!” he spits. ”I know you don't make your whores use that thing.”

Flabbergasted. Yes, that is the word.

” _Whores_? What whores? Where?”

But of course it would be too simple if he just answered me. John is looking quite irrational, nearly trembling with some emotion or other.

”And do you know how I know it’s not them who wear that thing? Because I could bloody _smell_ you!”

The corner of John's mouth curls up, but I truly doubt he’s amused in the least. That much even I can tell.

”Yes, Sherlock, I could smell you in that - that thing!” He gestures wildly at the corner where said hood now lies. “Your hair product, your moisturiser, your... everything. And d’you know something else? That's all I could smell on your pillow, as well, the day after you'd had one of your visitors.”

I could comment on his surprisingly extensive knowledge of my grooming products. Or on the fact that he openly admits to having been in my bed, sniffing at my linen. Or I could return to the subject of _whores_ , which I find the most puzzling of all.

Or I could simply point out that, as he rages on, his left and right pectoral muscles quiver rhythmically but slightly out of sync, which I suddenly find absolutely mesmerising.

However, as I open my mouth to speak, John is already carrying on with his rambling, clearly determined this conversion remain one-sided.

”See, you're not the only one who can make deductions, Sherlock. It's _you_ who wears that thing when you're here with them, and it's _you_ who's tied to the bed while they beat you, and hurt you, and, and... FUCK YOU!”

I can't be certain whether that last bit is an exclamation or not.

Fortunately John has to stop for air, which allows me my first chance to put an end to the overuse of conjunctions.

”John, this has gone far enough. There's really no need--”

”Yes! Needs!” And he’s back with full force. ”That's where all this began, right? That everybody has needs, even you. It was me who brought it up, wasn't it?” The laughter bursting out of John’s mouth is nearly hysterical. ”Little did I know...”

”If you'll just let me explain...”

”That you prefer to have it off with whores? Some complete stranger who could actually really hurt you? Kill you, even? The great Sherlock Holmes, killed by a common whore!”

”Please stop saying ‘whore’, or at least--”

”But when I bring up the subject, when _I'm_ allowed into this arrangement of yours, it's only as the whipping boy - literally! You let _them_ do whatever they want to you, but when it's me - _me_ , Sherlock!- then it's stupid bloody masks and ropes and... Fucking hell!” John shouts, before inhaling deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Again and again, until he mutters: ”The dog bites the cat and the cat bites the mouse. It never changes.”

”What? Dog, cat, mouse? What on earth do animals have to do with this?”

”And the funny thing?” John continues, leaving the question of bestiality hanging awkwardly unanswered. ”If you'd just asked me to be the _sub_ to your _dom_ , I'd probably have done it. I would've said 'no', of course, repeatedly and often, but I would've ended up doing it anyway. Just like I end up doing every other bloody thing you ask of me. But you didn't ask. The cat never asks the mouse.”

Again with the animals. This cannot be good.

“John, just stop this--”

As it so often does, the first blow comes as a shock. Possibly to the both of us.

John hits me square in the jaw and sends me staggering towards the bed. The pain is blinding, quite literally, and without being able to see much, I try to feel my way around to steady myself against the foot of the bed. But before I can get my bearings, John comes at me with full force and tackles me onto the bed. Within seconds I’m lying face down underneath him, my right arm bent ruthlessly behind my back, my shoulder screaming on the verge of being dislocated.

With a knee pressed over my arm, John reaches past me and grabs something at the other end of the bed. I’m hardly surprised to see a glimpse of the black rope, before I’m being pushed up on the bed, with the rope wrapped tightly around my left wrist.

It is at this time I truly start to struggle, but there's something to be said for the British armed forces, in that, with proper training, even a dwarf like John is able to get the upper hand. Before the attacked civilian (myself) can manage so much as a good, hard kick at the attacking soldier (John), the fight is already over.

As I lie there, tied to the bed with my arms spread wide, the position nearly tearing the sleeves off my jacket, and with a deranged doctor sitting on the backs of my legs, I can’t help but feel that things may not have gone quite according to plan.

”John, listen to me, you must---”

That is all I get to say before John notices the brown, nondescript cardboard box, which I have left on the bed and which contains all the silly little toys I ordered online.

It appears the item he wants is right on top of unseemly the pile, for it takes mere seconds for John to shove the silicone ball into my mouth and then start securing the gag in place.

”You know,” he says as he sits back, putting his full weight on my legs, ”I think I sort of get it. Why turn to me, when you can have any depraved hunk cruising the porn sites for a piece of arse. And you…”

I’m right in the process of deciding on the best way to lever him off of me, when he suddenly leans forward and pushes his fingers into my hair, forcing my head to the side so that he can look me in the eye.

John is smiling the way one smiles when one really shouldn't be smiling at all. Rather like a madman right before doing something utterly devoid of all logic and humanity.

And what John does next is, in a way, just that.

One hand still holding tightly to the roots of my hair, he reaches out with the other and cups my cheek, rubs his thumb gently over my lower lip. He avoids touching the gag, but his thumb slips and accidentally brushes against the red ball, and I feel my whole body tense up instantly. I’m half-expecting him to thrust the ball down my throat and break my jaw along the way. The man is definitely mad enough to do it.

But as worrying as this temporary insanity of his is, it seems John has no immediate intention of injuring me. Instead, the touch appears to cause him a good deal of... some deep emotion (who the hell knows about these things!), and he blinks vehemently, though not quickly enough for me to miss the distinct redness in the whites of his eyes.

”I understand. You’re gorgeous. Ridiculously so,” he says, still smiling like a lunatic, still smoothing my lip with his thumb. ”Of course you want something equalto that. I understand, really I do. Why would you even consider…”

John pulls back and from the corner of my eye, I see him make a sweeping gesture down his chest of greying hairs and the soft mound of his stomach. I try to comment on the matter, but the (stupid!) red ball turns it into a mumble.

”You don’t see it, do you? Everybody else around us sees it, but not you.” John shakes his head. His lower parts rub against the curve of my arse as he does so. ”You know how that last date ended, the one last week?”

Of course I can't reply in the negative, so John carries on.

”With her drunk as a duck. And do you want to know why?”

Why does he keep asking me things, when he knows I can't possibly answer? Is it just an annoying speech habit or is he being deliberately vicious?

”She was drunk because she'd made a drinking game out of it!” John half shouts, half laughs. ”Oh, yes. While we were on a date, she'd made a drinking game out of how many times I mention your name. And it's your fault!”

Honestly. Now I take issue. I manage a chuffing noise, meant to belittle him, accompanied by an overly dramatic roll of the eyes.

Despite the fact that he can only see half of my face, John appears to get the message.

”It _is_ your fault! It _is_! Because ever since I met you, I've had absolutely nothing interesting to say to anyone about anything _not_ involving you and your work! If I don't talk about you, I'm left with doing the bloody traffic and weather report!”

John straightens his posture, pulls his shoulders back, lifts his chin up. The soldier in him takes over. Finally. I have started to drool, thanks to this stupid ball in my mouth, and the smell of wet rubber right under my nose is simply disgusting. Surely the army has managed to put some sense into him that might resurface at a time like this and force him to pull himself back together?

However, when John continues talking, the soldier is gone and the madman is back again.

”But who can blame me? I mean, look at you”, he says, with a hint of that crazy smile in his voice. ”Those amazing eyes of yours, that absurd hair, the too-tight shirts you insist on wearing, the expensive suits that look like they're painted on you...”

He’s insulting my taste in clothes now? How low can the man go?

”So tight over that round arse...”

Wait. _What_?

”Hmph?!” That is as close to an outraged 'what?!' as I can possibly get.

I can't see John any more, he has sat back down on his legs - and mine - but that is definitely his hand on my behind. Yes. As much as I would prefer any other explanation for the sensation, there can be no mistaking that John Watson has just placed his hand on my behind.

And he is rubbing it. In circular motions. Clockwise.

Then there’s two of them. Hands, that is. And they are pushing underneath me, searching for something… Of course. The moment my belt snaps open, I know what will happen, as improbable as it is - or would have been not more than ten minutes ago. An awful lot can change in just ten minutes.

My trousers are pulled down along with my boxers. I note how surprisingly cold the warm air of the apartment feels when suddenly introduced to one’s bare buttocks.

”You let them fuck you, don't you? Fuck you up the arse while you lay tied to the bed. You trust them that much. Complete strangers.”

I tear at my bonds, shake my head frantically, huff and puff behind the ball gag, but it is all for naught. The knots hold, the madness continues.

”Relationships are not your area, right?” John carries on, with no regard to me. His hand isn’t rubbing my behind anymore, it’s squeezing, groping, undoubtedly leaving red marks on my skin. ”Much easier just to outsource these things to random strangers.”

There’s some hint of movement behind me, and John’s hand leaves my buttock.

All is silent, and for a brief moment I think it's over. That John has come to his senses. That soon I will be released. Apologies will be made, all will be forgiven, all will be forgotten.

And then, suddenly, I can hear him.

It is the sound of a hand moving rhythmically over wet flesh.

I can feel what John's doing, the strokes of his hand transmitting through his body to my legs still pinned under him.

John is masturbating. John is masturbating over my arse.

From behind the gag, I let out a groan.

”You like it hard, don't you?” he says, slightly out of breath. “What with the ropes and the gadgets and all. You like to be held down, struggle maybe? You beg them to fuck you hard and brutal, fuck you till you can't even speak any more, can't tell them to stop.”

His hand picks up pace, his breathing becoming erratic. My own breathing has stopped long since.

”You let them fuck your mouth, too, yeah? Shove their prick in so deep you'll gag. Fill that lovely mouth of yours with come.”

John takes a moment to steady his breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth, like he's trained to do. It doesn’t seem to help, not this time.

”And then? Do they shag your arse again? Cock slick with your saliva, no other lubricant needed...”

John is masturbating with one hand, while the other digs into my behind, the touches growing more painful, more desperate. Suddenly I feel the warmth of his pre-ejaculate dripping down between my buttocks. John appears to notice it, too, and his hand follows the wet trail. Follows it all the way to my…

Good god. I try to make a sound, but even without the gag, I doubt there would be much of a difference. The noise is that of an animal, not a man. An animal, whose body has just been breached.

”They fuck you hard and bloody,” mutters John, while his finger pushes deeper into me and his hand slides so fast up and down his penis that it occasionally slaps against me. “They pound you so hard you come screaming, over and over again... Jesus, Sherlock…!”

It is at this precise point that there's a knock on the door. It's faint, so it's not the bedroom door, but not faint enough to be the front door downstairs.

John is clearly startled by the sound, and I feel his weight leave the bed. I try to grunt something to get John to untie me and, more importantly, to remove the gag in my mouth. But he just leaves me, bangs the bedroom door violently shut behind him. Next I hear water running in the bathroom behind the wall as he washes his hands before scooting to answer the flat door.

I'm left lying there, tied up like on my own bed, with approximately 10 millilitres of semen drying on my skin.

The man with whom I share my home and my work and my life, the closest thing I have to a friend, has just masturbated over me.

It is rather a lot to digest.

And to make matters worse, I'm also sporting so enormous an erection that it cannot possibly be healthy.

Still, could be worse. At least he left my legs free. For if my legs were bound to the bed in the same manner as my arms, it would be almost impossible to bring myself to orgasm against the sheets.

 

///

 

It doesn’t take John long to return. Eighteen minutes, I estimate. Not nearly as long as I thought. Then again, absolutely nothing about this evening has been going according to plan.

He comes into the room but stays by the foot of the bed, out of my view. I try to make grunting noises behind the ball gag to let him know I'm still alive and would very much like to be freed from my bondage now before I start losing extremities to gangrene. But he just stands there and stares (at what? his feet? the opposite wall? my soiled behind?)

After what feels like ages, he finally walks over to me and leans down to undo the ropes.

”Sorry. I just... I'm sorry.”

There is a short interval, during which John sets my other hand free and removes the gag. I inhale with a wheeze. I find it immensely pleasurable to be able to breathe through my mouth again. For a while, I just lie there, concentrating on my breathing and waiting for blood to find its way back to my arms. And as soon as it does, the first thing I will do is take that damned device and throw it as far away from me as possible.

Then John clears his throat, twice, before speaking, repeating.

”I'm sorry.”

I, on the other hand, am still unable to form words, my mouth too dry and numb from the gag, but that doesn't stop my mind from racing. I admit to have very limited experience in sexual matters, but I have a strong suspicion that the fact that John has freed me, not to mention the apologies he keeps offering me, indicate that I am not about become any more experienced.

”I paid him. Toby. For his troubles. And gave him the taxi fare home.”

Without even trying to get up, I turn my head only enough to catch his eye.

”You wasted your money,” I say, my voice still raspy from the long silence. ”I already told you, John: no prostitutes. I invited him here for sex. He agreed. Quite happily, I might add.”

”Yes. That's what he kept telling me. You invited him here. _For me.”_

”Naturally.”

It seems perfectly obvious to me, but apparently not so much to John, as he keeps repeating the fact.

”He came here for me.”

While still lying on my stomach, I struggle to find a way to get up without turning fully over and letting John see the mess I’ve made of the sheets.

”Well, you asked for it, didn't you?” It may be callous of me, but I can't help but be slightly irritated by his attitude. I would have expected him to show at least some degree of gratitude after all that bother I went to for his sake. ”You indicated that you were interested in getting a spot of spanking, or what have you, so I arranged it for you. Aren't you supposed to say thank you?”

”You got me my very own rent boy. Yeah, cheers, Sherlock.”

It is the way he says it that gives it away. To my knowledge, men are seldom that apathetic after intercourse.

”So you didn't have sex with him, I take it?”

”No. No. Really not.” John shakes his head, that same melancholy tint still present in his voice, his every move.

”Did his physique disappoint you?” I enquire, as I feel partly responsible. ”Did you want a bigger cock? Or a smaller cock? These are hardly the sort of thing one can verify online, but I'm sure I can arrange a cock to your liking if...”

”Enough with the cocks!” John shouts. ”For God's sake. Why the hell would you think I was interested in Toby?”

”Who?”

”The rent boy!”

I tut at him.

”Oh, come now, John. I saw the look on your face that first night, when he had his hands on me. And mouth.” I shudder at the memory of that intrusive tongue and a number of other body parts. “You were jealous, admit it.”

John just stares at me. Then he blinks, just once, before he speaks again.

”You thought I was jealous... of Toby?”

I nod. Obviously.

”However,” I add after clearing my throat, “in light of recent events, I admit there is a small chance I may have been mistaken.”

John stares at me some more. Then he says, with a little too much emphasis, ”You don't say.”

“John, I--”

”I'm sorry, Sherlock.”

That is all John says. And with that, he leaves.

My arms still feel a bit wobbly, but with some effort, I manage to push myself up to a sitting position. The sheet follows me: the dried-up ejaculate appears to have glued my now flaccid organ to the linen.

Such a sad sight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I honestly didn't expect anyone to stumble upon this, so... wow. :o
> 
> Next stop: the aftermath. 
> 
> And after that: more consequences.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)


	4. In which John is leaving and Sherlock won’t have it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now betaed by the lovely **sideris** whom I love and adore! :)

 

After the incident, we don’t talk for two whole days. I do my best to stay clear of John and Baker Street, taking on cases that I normally wouldn't consider worth my while, just to have an excuse to stay out of the flat as much as possible, without actually joining the ranks of my homeless network.

However, the cases do not provide enough challenge to keep my mind from wandering back to the greatest mystery I have encountered in a while, if ever.

I have all the data. I can recite word-for-word the things John said while I was lying tied and gagged on the bed. It is hardly something one forgets.

And I can most certainly remember what he _did_.

At times, I suspect it was simply John's idea of a joke, albeit a poor one. Then again, his delivery was nothing if not earnest. So much so, that I can hardly think back to the incident and the fact that he had his erect organ so very close to my behind without the thought producing a certain physiological reaction, which I’m beginning to find rather annoying.

Nonetheless, after saying all those shocking and rather graphic things to me, John didn't actually do anything to me. Yes, he brought himself to orgasm over my naked buttocks, and yes, he did insert his finger into my anus, but that was it. Even in his obviously aroused state, he did nothing more. Not to me, and not to the young lad (Geoffrey?), whom I had so generously provided for him.

This is what my mind keeps coming back to: John expressed a desire to have sex with me, yet in the end, he to take advantage of the opportunity to have me. I was bound and helpless and so very willing, and he could have just entered me right then and there, buggered me into the mattress so hard that I bleed.

Yet all I get is a finger and sticky buttocks.

Did it actually even happen? Was it really John? I search my forearms for needle marks, even though I know there can't be any. And this is not the sort of hallucination heroin is likely to cause.

Which leaves me with temporary insanity, which means nothing, explains nothing. Except that if temporary insanity can be shared, my body certainly took part in it.

Which, in turn, brings me to another, equally puzzling element of that night, as there seems to be abundance of them.

I don't know why my body betrayed me in such a way, nor, more importantly, why it keeps betraying me. I have had the misfortune of being on the receiving end of rude talk before, and never, not once, has it had the slightest impact on either my mind or my body. Of course, no one has ever tied me up first and then masturbated in my presence, but that doesn’t change the fact that I was already hard well before John started touching himself, or me.

Even now as I try to analyse the incident, up the damn thing pops like a bloody jack-in-the-box!

"What is the matter with you?!" I can't help snapping at my groin. "I thought we had an understanding! I relieve you on a regular basis in exchange for undisrupted concentration while I work, yes? But you have had _four_ unscheduled emptyings in the past two days, and you still won't leave me alone!"

I am well aware that shouting at my genitalia will have little effect, but for a short while it does make me feel somewhat better.

Still, this John situation - for lack of a better word - is a case I really do need to solve and rather quickly, or my career as a consulting detective is at an end. One simply cannot perform at one’s best on a crime scene when having to concentrate on keeping one's coat shut to hide a very unwanted protrusion in one’s trousers. Especially if said protrusion is brought on by the sight of a crucified corpse - even though the dead man had his hands tied to a two-by-four, not a bed. Oh, the looks I received. Even Lestrade made a point of asking if I wasn’t more comfortable observing the crime scene at a distance. For the family’s sake.

It is painfully clear that I must talk to John.

 

///

 

Surprisingly enough, when the talking about the incident begins, it doesn’t begin with John. No, the first confrontation comes in the form of Mrs Hudson, who, in turn, comes in the form of a frail and wrinkled tornado.

The attack takes place in the kitchen when I am right in the middle of a crucial experiment. It is a terrifying mess of ungrounded accusations and pounding little hands that hit like only an elderly lady, who knows she won’t be hit back, can. She very nearly makes me drop a test tube of highly explosive solution, which would remodel not only our kitchen but hers as well. And quite possibly the rest of the block.

"What did you do, Sherlock?! You tell me right now! What did you do?"

All I can do is grab hold of two of the most dangerous solutions, leaving the merely flammable or acid ones on the table, and try to retreat to a safe distance.

"I know it's you, you did something to drive him away, didn't you? You stupid, darling boy! Don't you see he's the only thing keeping you sane, keeping you clean?"

"I haven't done anything!" I try to shout between the slaps and screams.

"Then you just go and do whatever it is you haven't done, because otherwise he'll be gone. He'll be gone and then what will become of you? Oh, Sherlock..."

The anger seems to die down and turn into shakes and sobs. I dare not offer her any consolation for fear of unleashing another wave of womanly fury. Instead, I keep a close eye on the solutions and instruments on the table, and try to estimate the range of the old woman’s spindly arms, were they to start flailing in an alarming way again.

"Tomorrow he’ll be gone and then you will have lost him, the only…” She puts her hand over her mouth, but it doesn’t seem to keep her from saying more words I don’t want to hear. “You do see he’s the only one, don’t you, Sherlock? And now you’re losing him… You stupid, stupid boy."

And then Mrs Hudson walks away, shaking her head and wringing her hands, while I'm left holding the means to end it all.

I glance at the test tubes and consider my options: a serious and inevitably humiliating conversation with John versus an awfully big bang. A close call.

With a sigh, I put the solutions safely away. It is time I solve this problem before John does something idiotic like leave me, which is the only piece of information I was able to decipher from Mrs Hudson’s hysterical outburst.

If need be, I'm ready to have John strip me naked, tie me to the radiator and sodomize me as often and as thoroughly as he wants.

Yes, quite ready.

"Will you stop doing that!" I hiss at the bulge in my trousers and give the damn thing a sharp smack.

Sadly, it does not have the desired effect. Before going up to John's room, I am forced to pop into the bathroom. Again.

 

///

 

"I hear you're leaving, then. Any place nice?"

John looks up, sets the box down on his bed, and shakes his head.

"No, but it'll do till I can find something astonishingly cheap. Or someone to share a flat with." He tries to laugh, but it doesn't turn out well.

I know I must say something. Part of me even wants to say something.

"Mrs Hudson seems a tad upset. She's going to miss you."

"Yeah? Well, I'll miss her, too. But there's really no way I could keep living here." He starts shoving things in the box again, happily mixing his shirts with his shoes and at least one houseplant ( _Aglaonema modestum_ ).

"I'm... I'm sorry you feel that way."

"I thought you'd be pleased. You've gone out of your way to avoid me for days now. You should be able to spend time in your own home without the fear of running into me." John appears to notice the plant in the box, picks it out and abandons it on the floor. "And now you can order in as many whores as you like. Hope the detective business booms, so you can afford it, too."

"John. Stop this nonsense.” For some reason, I feel compelled to correct him, so I add, “And I have never paid for sex in my life. You must know I’m not interested in it enough to waste money on it. So just stop this."

To my credit, he does stop packing, if that is what he calls the mindless stuffing of miscellaneous items into banana boxes. But somehow I doubt he has had a rethink quite that quickly.

"Why?"

"Because you like living here. Because Mrs Hudson likes having you here. Because I... I need you here."

"Need?"

"Yes. The dishes start piling up so quickly," I say and flash him a grin. After all, humour is a time-honoured means of avoiding difficult subjects.

But John is not amused. Instead, he gives me a look that says I should understand something because it’s obvious and everyone else (human) would understand it. Needless to say, I don’t.

"What? What is it?" I ask, irritated.

"You’re asking me? Sherlock, do you seriously not get what happened the other night?"

"Nothing happened," I answer truthfully. "You sent Tim away, didn’t you. I can't really understand why."

"His name was Toby," John starts, then inhales deeply. "And I sent him away because I wasn't interested in him. I'm not gay, Sherlock. I'm really not."

I sniff at his blatant lie.

"One might argue that the things you did, when I was tied up, were somewhat gay. Very much gay, in fact. You described a number of homosexual acts. Both anal and oral. You were actually quite specific, John. And may I remind you, you were masturbating at the time."

"Yes, thank you, Sherlock. I'd almost forgotten about that."

John looks flustered. I can’t help but notice he keeps straightening his shoulders and fisting his hands. Not really the best of signs.

"And even after all that," he continues, with effort, "you still thought I'd just go and shag some strange bloke while you lay..."

Words seem to fail John once more, and the pile of papers, which he has been holding and which look worth saving, will be beyond saving if his grip on them gets any tighter. Finally, he just snaps, "I'm not into men, okay?" And he seems done with the subject.

I want to ask him what that makes _me_ \- apart from increasingly uncomfortable - but I quickly decide I have no interest in knowing the answer.

"If you say so."

John seems to calm down a bit at this point. Or possibly despair. The appearance is quite similar. "Do you honestly not get what I... did... didn't do... Jesus fuck, Sherlock."

And then he starts packing again. The papers are stuffed into a box, which previously contained only hygiene products. I can hear a glass container of something or other shatter as he tops the box off with some hefty looking books.

"The room will be empty by tomorrow night. Hope you have better luck with your next flatmate."

"John..."

"No."

That is all that he gives me. Just a raised index finger and an affirmative 'no'.

Apparently I've said something wrong. Or haven't said the right thing. I know I haven't said enough, but somehow I doubt my message will be received well in John's current state of mind no matter how I phrase it.

The situation is grave enough to call for direct action.

 

///

 

It's seven minutes past ten, when I enter John’s bedroom and drop the load I've been carrying onto his sleeping body. I have opted to wait until he has dozed off, estimating that he would be more receptive and less hostile, when in such a relaxed state. Thankfully, he has retired early - tired from his frantic packing, no doubt - and I have only waited a few minutes behind his door before hearing him start to snore softly.

However, my chosen approach does appear to leave him somewhat irritated.

"What...?!" John cries when the items hit his lap. He sits up with a start. "Sherlock?"

I reach for the lamp on John's bedside table, wait for him to blink repeatedly and get his bearings. Then I point to the things I've dropped on top of his duvet.

"It's all there, all the ridiculous little toys I bought online: the whips and what-not, the gagging red ball thingy, the nipple pinching things, the ridiculously disproportionate dildos. The whole sad lot. Just take what you want to use on me. Take them all. I don't care. Do whatever you want."

I believe it is at this moment John realises that I'm wearing nothing but my pants, which I have left on only to keep my stubborn erection at bay. Not that the thin linen is proving to be much of a hindrance, now that I'm in the same room with John. To distract him from my wilful groin, I pick up the handcuffs and hold them out to him. They seem to do the trick, as his gaze climbs up to meet mine.

"Here. They're more uncomfortable than the bondage rope. And I can only assume pain is of essence here, yes? Although I must warn you, there is a good chance I might get out of them."

John is still staring at me, still blinking too much. Then he puts his hands over his mouth - both of them, one over the other, as if to keep from being sick - and whispers between his fingers: "No."

"No?" I repeat. "I'm offering you the chance to use me as you please, and you say no? I thought this was what you wanted."

John just takes the handcuffs and tosses them on top of the heap of sex toys. They chime softly as they hit the nipple chains. C minor, I believe.

Then he kicks off his blanket and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He is sitting with his back to me, leaning heavily on his knees, his hands again covering his mouth. The room is silent enough for me to hear him inhale deeply through his nose, then blow the air against the palms of his hands. I can also hear my own elevated pulse, thumping in my ears.

Then, finally letting his hands drop onto his lap, he says, "You really don't understand, do you?"

What am I supposed to say to that? No, I _don't_ understand. This is about sex and needs and emotions and stupid erections that simply will not go away no matter how often I masturbate! So, _no_ , I most definitely don't understand!

I take a deep breath to calm my heart rate down. I'm well aware that getting upset will in no way advance my cause. So instead of lashing out, I keep my voice quite calm and collected.

“No, John, I don’t understand. But I have concluded that this is something I don’t even have to understand in order to correct it. So, will you, please, just shove your penis in an orifice of mine - I honestly don't care which one - so I can get on with my work and you can begin unpacking?"

As unambiguous and, I think, reasonable as my solution to the problem is, it does not have the desired effect. Not unless somehow, subconsciously, I wanted John to start showing signs of low-level nausea.

"Sherlock, please don't say things like that. I beg of you."

John gets up and starts pacing between the bed and the window, kicking a couple of banana boxes aside as he goes. He is wearing no pyjama bottoms, only a T-shirt and tight boxers, and I find it exceedingly difficult not to look at his lower half as he moves about. I fail to notice any sign of arousal, so it appears my offer - of my body, of me - has not been met with as much interest as I dared to expect.

Fine, then.

"I see. Of course. It was the _situation_ that you found appealing, not..." I won't say 'me'. I cannot bring myself to say it. "Very well. Do you want me to put up a bit of a struggle for you? You want to hold me down as you penetrate me? You can even smack me about, if that is what it takes. I don't mind."

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock, I'm not going to hurt you!"

John seems genuinely shocked. Have I misinterpreted him again? Stupid emotions!

"What then?” I huff, getting increasingly frustrated. “What is it that you want from me? You were quite clear on the subject the other night, yet you proceeded to have sex neither with me nor with Donny. Why, John?"

"Toby. His name is Toby."

"Irrelevant."

John stops by the window and leans against the sill for a while. His breathing is heavy, and from his silhouette, I can see his jaw alternate between clenched and forcibly relaxed, back and forth, like it was an exercise of some kind. Then he lets go of the window sill and, slowly, turns back towards me. His eyes seem brighter than they were a moment ago.

"I didn’t... I don’t... I was just so angry with you... When you..." John starts and starts again. "And then _he_ showed up and... For God’s sake, put some clothes on! I can’t talk to you like this."

Of course I have brought no clothes with me, so I settle to wrap myself in the blanket, which John so keenly offers me. The blanket does a decent job of concealing the beginnings of my erection, which is probably for the best, considering how this conversation is going.

"I didn't mean to... I don't want to hurt you, Sherlock."

"Then why are you leaving me?"

"I... Jesus Christ, I nearly raped you!" he bursts, the air escaping from his chest like gas from a balloon. "I was drunk, and angry, and I wanted it so much, it was all I could think about, and you, you looked so... God! I was drunk, all right? If that boy hadn't come at that exact moment, I was ready to..."

And the balloon runs out of air.

As I cannot think of anything I could possibly say to that, I resort to action.

"Sherlock?" he asks, as the blanket drops to the floor. "Please put that back on."

But I just shake my head. I crawl onto John’s bed and lie down on my back. I raise my arms above my head and swiftly cuff my hands to the metal bar of the bedhead.

I’m spread out in front of him, quite unashamed (shame is a pointless emotion) but all the more scared (fear is essential).

"Please, John. Whatever it was you wanted to do to me the other night, do it now. I won’t fight back." I pause to consider. "Unless you want me to."

John rolls his eyes, and his head, and finally his whole body does something resembling a little dance. All to indicate his outrage at my offer.

"Yes. Thank you, Sherlock. That’s really what a bloke wants to hear."  But instead of coming to ravish me, he simply picks up the blanket and tries to cover me with it. I, of course, kick at it furiously. "Stop it, Sherlock! I’m not doing anything to you, not like this. Believe it or not, but the sacrificial lamb thing isn’t really a turn-on for me. You don’t really want this."

"Can’t say till I gather more data."

"Data!" John scoffs. "Haven’t you already gathered enough already? You’ve certainly covered plenty of ground with your male _and_ female visitors…”

“I don’t understand what their gender has to do with it. I already told you, I have no preference.”

“Fine. You’ll shag anything that moves, and judging by this lot..." John shoots a bitter look at the sex toys. "I honestly don’t even know what some of this stuff is called, let alone how to use them. So I think you have more than enough data as it is."

"No," I reply quite calmly. "Not yet. But if you'll just get out of those clothes and have me, I might."

"Just like that? You expect me to, to..." John tries but doesn't seem to be able to say it.

"I’m here for you to do whatever it is you need to do to keep you from leaving. Because I can't have you leaving, John."

It seems that is the wrong thing to say, for it makes John groan, much like a wounded animal. He throws his head back and shouts at the ceiling, "For heaven's sake, Sherlock!"

Then, lowering his eyes just enough to locate the items spread out next to me on the bed, he throws the whole lot of them rattling on the floor with one fierce sweep.

"All right,” I say and give the blanket one last kick to get it off of me. “I take it you don't want the toys after all. Noted. But you can still have me. Any way you want, John.”

I adjust myself, trying to present my pale and scrawny body as something to be desired, a source of potential pleasure. The handcuffs clatter awkwardly against the bedhead as I move.

“Do you want to fuck my mouth and come down my throat? Or you can, of course, come on my face - I'm given to understand that's quite popular, at least in pornographic imagery."

"No." He shakes his head, takes a step back, away from the bed. Away from my body. "No, Sherlock."

"Or do you just want to take me? Is that it? You want to _fuck_ me?"

"No! Sherlock, stop. I can't..."

"Of course you can, you can fuck me quite thoroughly, as hard and brutal as you want. I won't mind the pain. Transport, remember."

"No! I can't!"

"Why on earth not?"

I'm getting truly frustrated now. Just when I thought I finally understood what he wants from me, he turns me down yet again. I can see his erection fighting through his pants, so this must be what he wants - for god's sake, this is all I've been able to think about for days!

"I don't understand, John. I'm here, and I'm telling you that I don't mind, that you're welcome to do whatever you want with me, and yet you won't. Why?"

"Because I can't!"

" _Why?!"_

John takes a deep breath and turns to look away, before answering.

"I can't just _fuck_ you, Sherlock. Not just because _you don't mind_. It wouldn’t be enough." He pulls his shoulders back, lifts up his chin and stares at the empty wall in front of him. "It's not.... it's not normal. This is not how people... It’s an obsession, and it's.... it's not normal," he repeats, then he turns around, but instead of looking straight at me, he is speaking to the side of the bed. "I think we're done here, don't you? I'll have the room empty by tomorrow evening."

"John..."

But John has grabbed his trousers and shirt from the top of one of the boxes and is now getting hurriedly dressed.

"No, sorry, I can't... I can't even look at you right now. So... Sorry. For everything."

However, just as he is about to storm out of his own room, the door is opened by a very shaken-looking Mrs Hudson.

She is standing in the doorway, holding her dressing gown shut with one hand and covering her mouth with the other.

“Oh! Oh my, I’m so sorry, I did knock but you didn’t answer, and I could hear your voices up here, and I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, oh my!”

As usual, she sounds nearly hysterical. The woman is an excellent house-keeper, but she does have an inconvenient tendency to overreact. Granted, I’m lying handcuffed to John’s bed in nothing but my underwear, but that is still no reason to get so worked up.

“Yes, what is it, Mrs Hudson?” I ask, giving her an annoyed look.

She, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be able to look back at me, so she turns to John, presumably just because he has more clothes on.

“You’ve got a client,” she says, almost in a whisper. “Downstairs. Says he has an appointment with...” She gestures in my direction, lowering her voice still further. “...with Sherlock.”

“Mrs Hudson,” I answer despite her efforts to ignore me, “as you can probably tell, I’m a bit indisposed at the moment, so run along and tell them to go away.”

“Or you could tell that to me yourself,” says an unfamiliar voice.

A man steps into the room past Mrs Hudson. He is short, somewhere in his early forties, average-looking. It takes me a second to place him.

“Visitor number three. Damn it. I forgot to cancel you,” I say more to myself than him. “So sorry, but as you can see, we’re in the middle of something, so consider our little session cancelled, belatedly. Bye now.”

But instead of leaving, as he should, Number Three takes one look at me, then turns to John. Does everyone think I have lost my ability to speak for myself simply because I’m wearing handcuffs and very little else?

“I’m sorry, did I interrupt something…?”

“No, not at all,” John says, buttoning his shirt up. There’s an odd smile on his face as he shakes his head. “He’s all yours. Enjoy.”

“John--” I start, but I’m cut short.

“No. Just… no.” John is still smiling, and looking scarier by the minute. He pats Number Three on the shoulder on his way out. “Sherlock here just told me he’s up for anything, any which way you want. Honestly. He doesn’t mind. Your exact words, weren’t they, Sherlock?”

“John?”

“Really? Well, I think I can work with that,” the man says, his eyes narrowing as he studies my uncomfortably exposed body. “You sure I’m not stepping on your toes or anything?”

“ _John_?”

“Absolutely not,” John tells him reassuringly, and pushes Mrs Hudson out of the room along with him. “Just don’t… don’t hurt him. Please.”

And he shuts the door behind him.

“JOHN!” I shout after him, but the door stays closed.

For a while Visitor Number Three just watches me, as I struggle in the handcuffs, trying to break either my thumb or the bedhead. Then, when I finally admit my defeat and let out a frustrated groan, he approaches the bed cautiously.

“Do you want me to get those off for you? I think the key is right there.” He points to the foot of the bed. “Or is this part of the, you know, deal?”

I study his face for moment, make the usual deductions, none of which offer anything particularly interesting. John is long gone by now, no use trying to go after him, but here I have a man who by all intents and purposes represents him quite adequately, so I decide to make the most of it.

“Do you find me attractive? This--” I nod towards my naked torso. “This body, is it acceptable? For sexual intercourse, that is. I know you can’t really see the penis, but you may trust me that it is average at best. As a representation of the male physique it is hardly ideal, I admit, but would you be able to take any pleasure in it?”

The man looks baffled, doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands. I’m tempted to tell him that burying them in one’s armpits is really best to be saved for when one is about to lose fingers to frostbite.

“Um, yeah,” he then stutters, sneaking a quick peek at my body. “Yeah. I mean, um, yes, it’s acceptable. Very much so. Yeah. Very.”

Given that this statement is accompanied with slight drooling, I’m inclined to believe him. This man would like to have sex with me. And if I wanted to have the penis of a forty-something (practically the same age as John) dentist (practically the same as doctor) inserted in one or more of my orifices, here would be an eager volunteer for the job.

No drama, no questions, no consequences. Perfect.

“So, you, um, want me to take you while you’re, um, cuffed, or…?”

“No, I think I want you to hand me the key and close the door on your way out.” I flash him my warmest fake smile. “So sorry for forgetting to cancel you.”

After he leaves, I stop to think how wrong John was about the dangers of meeting strangers off the internet: all three of my ‘visitors’ have turned out to be perfectly harmless.

 

///

 

John keeps his word: the next afternoon, when I come home from the Yard, his room is empty. All that is left is the abused plant on the window sill and the sex toys laid out neatly on the bed, as if on display.

I gather them all up in a shopping bag and throw them straight out the window. Shortly after, a string of angry shouts carries in from the street, indicating that the cursed things have landed on someone. I pop my head out for just long enough to wish him better luck with them.

The only thing I save is the lubricant. I make good use of it later that night when when I masturbate fiercely with two of my fingers inside me. When I come, I make a sound not unlike a sob, and I have to take a long shower afterwards. The steaming water burns when it hits my stretched hole. I find that this gives me pleasure.

John’s plant I move to my bedroom. I don’t intend to water it.

 

///

 

The text comes in the evening, only a few hours after John has moved out of the flat. It is short and concise, and all in capital letters, which I know John to prefer.

WE NEED TO TALK. COME MEET ME? JW

Four minutes later I stand in the drizzle on the street and hail a taxi. When I give the cabbie the address John sent me, I consider whether to give Lestrade a ring and tell him I'm walking into a trap.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all you kind and wonderful people, who have left kudos or comments! I can't tell you how stupidly happy it makes me to know someone is actually reading this! :)
> 
> Life's a bit hectic at the moment, but I'll try my hardest to get the last chapters up as soon as possible. The next one is really where most of the tags and warnings stem from, so consider this your warning - or promise! :D
> 
> Love you all! :)


	5. In which Sherlock has to admit that there are always consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, this is where the warnings really kick in!
> 
> The chapter contains **RAPE/NON-CON** and **STRONG VIOLENCE** and possibly also other trigger-y things that I just can't think of right now, so consider yourself warned for those, too.
> 
> Betaed by the lovely **sideris** whom I love and adore! :)
> 
> And not to worry - all this Hurt will be soon followed by a lot of Comfort :)

As the taxi pulls over in front of a darkened building, which obviously used to be a slaughter house but now hosts a strip club, I wonder if I will find John inside or just his mobile.

Of course, it would be stupidly optimistic of me to assume the person behind this settled with just the phone, but when it comes to John, I tend to opt for optimism.

John has been unfortunate enough to have found himself in this type of situation before, hence I'm confident he will endure whatever is thrown at him. It is usually me that they are after, not John, and John has graciously adapted to his role as damsel in distress - although I now know better than to refer to him as such ever again.

This time, however, none of the cases on which I have been working lately, have been of the magnitude usually required for some madman to try to get to me through John. There should be no criminal mastermind in such dire need of my attention that they would resort to kidnapping.

Which, I must admit, leaves me intrigued.

I've only just discovered that the dark exterior isn’t a clever advertising trick to ensure the patrons’ anonymity, but that the club is indeed closed today, when a text alert sounds in my coat pocket.

GO ROUND BACK, I'LL LEAVE A DOOR OPEN FOR YOU.

No signature this time, but the number is still John's. Apparently whoever it is, they know better than to bother pretending any more.

I circle round to the back of the building and find the slightly ajar backdoor easily enough. The inside is almost as dark as the front, but the sweet, sticky smell of spilled drinks combined with sweat and other bodily fluids is unmistakable, and I proceed towards what can only be the main room.

And there, in the vast but low, cellar-like space, I find light. Spotlights, to be more precise, all pointing at the stage set in the far end of the room. I pass two bars and rows of booths along the walls, but no tables. Apparently, this is not the sort of place where one comes to sit quietly with a drink and enjoy the show.

Everywhere I look, I am pained to observe ridiculous amounts of chains and whips and man-sized cages, not to mention other silly little items, which are all meant to convey that the place isn’t just a dank and depressing cellar with a BDSM theme, but an actual dungeon, where all one’s dirtiest fantasies can come true.

Hurriedly I work my way up to the brightly-lit stage.

The signs outside advertised ‘Girls, Girls, Girls!’ and I can only assume this is where they ‘perform, perform, perform’ six nights a week. After all, even exotic dancers - and the perverts who come to ogle at them - have to have their day of rest, and it appears to be this one.

There are a couple of poles, for naked women to swirl around, I should imagine. Setting this particular venue apart from a standard strip club, however, are the couple of large black mattresses placed on the floor of the stage. They are accompanied by two tables, both upholstered with black (synthetic) leather. The surfaces are at hip-level, no doubt both for the performers’ convenience and for the audience’s enjoyment. ‘Live sex shows! See it all!’ is what the poster outside claimed, after all.

But what is now on the stage doesn't need to be raised above to floor for me to see it.

”John?”

I say it out loud, even though I can tell perfectly well that it is him. Despite the fact that he is naked. Despite the fact that he is on his hands and knees on the bare floor. Despite the fact that he is wearing some kind of shackles around his wrists and a dog collar around his neck with a chain connecting it to a metal ring, which appears to be bolted to the floor quite firmly.

He lifts up his head as much as the chain allows and breathes out (in relief? surprise? disappointment?).

”Sherlock... Run… I'm OK…” he croaks, quite contrary to the truth.

I don't have to ask him anything. The data flows through me in an instant.

The laboured breathing, the awkward line of his back (forced to kneel on the floor for 30-40 minutes). The red lines across his back and buttocks (a riding crop, nine slashes). The blotches on his cheeks (three slaps on the face, once on the right cheek, twice on the left). The messed up hair, swollen lips (fingers in his hair, holding his head in place while--).

My heart-rate jumps. The adrenaline, which has been on the rise since I stepped into the taxi, must be peaking right about now. Good. I will need every ounce of it to beat the bastard who did this to a bloody pulp.

”Show yourself,” I say loudly, attempting to keep my voice calm, though betraying some of the anger burning in my gut.

Right on cue, the man walks out of the shadows and into the spotlight. He is wearing the same leather vest he had on when he first visited Baker Street. It continues to look cheap and distasteful, but this time even more so, as he hasn’t bothered with a shirt underneath it. And to top it off, he has combined it with  _chaps_ , made of the same black fake leather as the vest. In keeping with the theme, the chaps have nothing underneath them, either, leaving his buttocks and groin very much in the open. Not to mention his half-erect penis.

”Glad you could make it, Sherlock,” my visitor Number Two says as he moves upstage. He stops by John and pats his head like he would a dog's. ”We wanted to wait for you, you know. But you took so long, I couldn't help myself. I just had to have a go. But don't worry, there's plenty left for you, too.” He sniggers, like the stupid little boy he is. ”I can tell you're checking out my cock. Like it, eh?  _Where_ would you like it?” And he sniggers again, so immensely pleased with himself.

Naturally I'm looking at his organ. The colour of his glans indicates that he has ejaculated within the last thirty minutes. There is no visible residue of lubrication or blood, but amidst in his dark pubic hair there are a few much lighter ones (John's), as well as bite marks on the inside of his thigh (John's) and some chafing at the base of his shaft, most likely from repeated impact with stubble (John's).

In a matter of seconds my verdict is finalised. I am going to kill this man.

”Why? Why do this?” I ask. I feel I owe it to myself to try to understand him before I end him. After all, it was I who invited this maniac to our home. I am responsible for him, for what he has done. To John. “Just because I didn’t have sex with you?”

”Are you fucking serious?” Number Two exclaims, but all the while there's that same stupid grin on his face, as if this was all terribly amusing. ”Well, let’s see… First, you had me come all the way over to your place - for nothing! Just a bit of snogging, and then it's bye-bye Toby. No excuses, nothing. Not a fucking thing! And then you have the balls to ring me up  _again_ , saying you're hooking me up with your flatmate, instead. Fine, I'll play ball, I come over,  _again_ , and John here...” Toby gives John's violently red behind a hard slap, and I can see John clench his teeth to hold back any sound of pain. ”John wasn't too keen, now, were you? Paid me off like I was some fucking whore!”

”So this is your idea of revenge,” I state as I climb up the few steps to the stage. I'm still a good twenty feet away, which means I cannot charge the youngster, not yet. But step by step, I move closer and prepare to make my move.

It is at this point that Toby draws a gun and presses it to the top of John's head. Of course. How else would he have overpowered John without a scratch on him. I should have known there would be a gun. Why is my mind not working when I need it!

”No, this isn’t revenge. This is just me getting what I want for a change. And I already told you what I want, remember, Sherlock?”

I go over the exchange of words I had with Visitor Number Two - or Toby, as he referred to himself - when he first came over to the flat, but all I can recall is the look on John's face when the boy pressed his eager mouth on mine. The rest of that night has already been deleted as irrelevant. And now there's John, looking up at me with a gun to his head.

John. Hurt. Danger.

Attack. Maim. Kill.

No. I must remain calm. The gun is too close, John is chained to the floor, no escape. Too many variables. Too many bad or even worse scenarios. I need to wait. Wait for the opportune moment.

I see John clenching and unclenching his fists, the metal rings connecting the broad and thick black leather straps around his wrists rattling quietly as he moves. His breathing is shallow, irregular. He is waiting. He thinks he will be raped, quite soon. He is preparing for the pain, for the humiliation of having me here to witness it. For the possibility that he may not survive it. John has been in mortal danger on numerous occasions, he has seen war and combat, he has even taken a bullet and still managed to pull through. Yet I can smell it on him, it's in his sweat: he fears it may all end here. Raped and shot to death on the stage of a seedy strip club.

”I can only assume this has something to do with intercourse,” I venture a guess without even a hint of murderous rage in my voice, for which I’m particularly proud.

Attack, maim and kill.  _Later_.

”See, he doesn't even remember,” Toby says to John. “That’s how much it meant to him!”

The chain stretches straight as John's head is forced back and the collar digs into the sides of his neck. I notice the metallic scent even before I see the blood trickle down his neck. The collar is too tight: every movement has the hard edges of it ripping through John's skin, and the mere act of breathing must be agony for him.

”But he will. After tonight, fucking right he will.” John is quick to close his eyes before Toby shoves his throbbing purple cock in his face, rubs it against John's reddened cheek, smearing his face with pre-ejaculate. ”Open up!”

To my horror, I watch John obey. He opens his mouth and allows Toby to push his disgustingly swollen organ inside. John's eyes remain tightly shut and his face distorts when Toby grabs him by the hair and forces himself even deeper down his throat. He doesn't even appear to expect John to suck him. No, he intends to  _fuck_  him, to use John's mouth like it was nothing more than a hole in a wall. He fucks John’s mouth fast and brutal, showing no concern for whether John is still breathing or not.

And he isn't.

The next thing I know, John is gagging, struggling for air, and his bound hands flail about in a panicked attempt to escape from the intruder, who is cutting off his air supply. His face turns dark red and his throat makes the most horrid sounds, but his assailant doesn’t care. Toby just thrusts down harder, faster, holding John's head in place and fucking him like the beast that he is.

“Please,” I try, as I move slowly closer to them. “John has nothing to do with this. You want me, don’t you? Not him.”

Toby lets his length slide out of John's mouth for just long enough for John to take a few quick breaths, spitting and coughing, and then the thing is sliding in again, down John's abused throat.

The rapist turns to me, his cock still deep inside John. ”You’re damn right it’s you I want. John here is just the fluffer, getting me ready for you. So get your kit off. Now!”

In order to emphasise his already fairly clear directions, he turns the gun away from John and points it at me instead.

I consider this an infinite improvement. Now, if only I could keep the thing pointed my way and far away from John for long enough to make my move...

”Hurry up. I don't wanna waste all my juice on this bitch.”

As quickly as I can without appearing hurried, I take off my coat, my suit, shirt, shoes and socks, and place them all neatly on one of the padded tables. When I'm finished, Toby smiles approvingly and lets his cock slip out of John's mouth with an audible ‘pop’. John gulps air into his lungs and tries his hardest to suppress a retch. I suspect he has already been punished for showing signs of being sick.

”Pants, too,” Toby adds. ”I'm not gonna fuck you through them.”

As he speaks, he is moving away from John. Which is good.It leaves me feeling strangely relieved for someone about to be anally raped.

”Fine. You’ll have your way with me and then what? Back off to your parents' for a spot of supper?” I scoff, but push down my pants as requested, and throw them on top of my other clothes. ”Do you honestly think you will outlive this, after what you've done to John?”

”I haven't done nothing yet! But this beauty right here...” Toby holds up the gun, looking at it like he was holding his own member in his hand. ”This'll make sure I get every fucking thing I want. And now I want you on that mattress, on all fours.”

Slowly I arrange myself down on the mattress on my hands and knees. The mattress is surprisingly hard: it is clearly designed for the performance, not for the performers’ benefit. The surface feels disgustingly sticky and reeks of disinfectant. It's made of some synthetic material, inexpensive and easy to wipe clean after use. I don't want think about how many naked bodies have lain here before me.

Toby approaches me with a half-witted grin on his face. His erection is bobbing along in front of him, made even more noticeable by the black frame of his chaps around it. He stops to pick something up from a messy pile on the floor. I’m hardly surprised to see the riding crop in his hand. He tucks the gun down the back of his chaps, the barrel pointing down between his buttocks - a most desirable accident waiting to happen. The riding crop, on the other hand, he keeps firmly in his grip, letting it sway in wide arcs in the air as he moves towards me.

However, it is the other item in his hand that catches my eye. The shiny one.

“I think this would look lovely on that long neck of yours,” he says, as he squats in front of me and slips the choke collar around my neck. It is a simple silver-coloured chain, capable of suffocating me quite efficiently and with very little force. As a test, Toby gives it a little tug and is clearly pleased with the gulping noises I make as I struggle for air.

“Gorgeous, fucking gorgeous. No, no - just keep your mouth open.”

He steps down from the mattress and stands on the floor right in front of me. The thick mattress ensures that even with me on my hands and knees, his hips are at level with my head. It is hardly difficult to predict where this will lead. He loosens the chain a little, but before I can get my breath back, he shoves his cock between my lips.

“No!” I hear John shout. “Please, no…”

But Toby takes no notice of him. He repeats the same motions as with John, rubbing the length of his of organ against my cheeks, then dipping into my mouth and ramming himself against the back of my throat a few times before pulling out again. It seems he only has that one routine.

“John needed a bit of encouragement. What do you think, should I give you some, too?”

And without waiting for an answer, Toby lets the crop land squarely on my behind. Even though I know there can’t be any serious damage, not when the device is obviously designed for pleasure and has very little to do with riding horses, the pain is still surprisingly intense. Despite my best effort, a sound escapes my lips. Toby is quick to use this to his advantage and thrusts his cock in my opened mouth so deep I can’t keep myself from gagging.

“Come on, Sherlock! Swallow it!”

When I don’t comply immediately, he raises the crop again and lets it land hard on my lower back, while his other hand is busy pumping his cock with increasing speed. I close my eyes and try not to scream from the pain, but I can hear John shouting for me in the background.

”Stop it, please,” he calls out. ”You can - you can do what you like with me, but please don't - don't...” Then he seems to get an idea, and as usual, it is rather a poor one. ”You don't want him, he's - he's a slag. Slept with god knows how many people. You want something tight, yeah? You want a virgin. Like me.”

“No,” I manage to mutter between Toby’s thrusts against the back of my throat. “He’s... lying. There’s no one… Never… John...”

“Is that right? So, you wanna play the role of hero, eh, John?” The beating stops and the cock slides out of my mouth, even the choke collar is loosened, though the chain stays in Toby’s hand. “Sacrifice yourself for your beloved Sherlock? Oh, don’t worry. I’ll get to you yet.”

John groans in frustration and pulls fiercely at the chain that binds his collar to the floor, but his efforts have little effect.

I, on the other hand, am struggling with something else entirely. ‘Beloved’? No. Surely not. He wanted to have sex with me, yes, and even that only that one night but not since. That is all. He never mentioned anything about… anything beyond that. Except…

‘It wouldn’t be enough.’ That’s what John said when I offered myself to him, only to be turned down. ‘It wouldn’t be enough.’

 _No_.

“Please, leave John out of this. Just do…” I look up at Toby, wait till I catch his eye. “Do what you want with me.”

“Oh, I will. Don’t you worry.”

And he laughs out loud as he continues what he’s started. Again and again the riding crop cuts into my skin. And again. And again. The pain in my back and behind mixes with the pressure around my neck and the revolting taste of pre-ejaculate in my mouth. I’m not getting enough oxygen and my knees feel weak and my hands keep slipping on the mattress as he fucks my mouth harder and harder. The pain and the pressure and the nausea go on and on and on, until I feel myself slipping into a state just outside of reality, where everything is black, blissfully black…

The next thing I realise is that the thing in my mouth has gone soft. I wonder if I have somehow, by reflex, swallowed his come, as there doesn’t appear to be any left in my mouth or dripping down my chest. Then I open my eyes and look up, only to find John’s face staring down at me.

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters. His bound hands hover helplessly above me. “Sherlock…”

I don’t know how long he has been there, how long I have been sucking John instead of the other one. All I know is that having his penis in my mouth makes all of this so much better - and worse.

”No way I’m leaving John out of this.” Toby says seriously like a schoolboy explaining that it’s not fair to let anyone feel left out. He is standing right behind John, the gun once again in plain sight and pressed against John’s temple. “John here deserves to be a part of this. Now give it a good hard suck, Sherlock. Go on.”

When I make no effort to do as I am told, Toby abandons John and swings around me to sit on his knees behind me, between my legs. He takes hold of the end of my choke collar and pulls, thereby making sure I have no choice but to look up and face the penis. But my gaze steals higher still, and I notice far too much: John's eyelashes clumped together, streaks of dried tears running down his cheeks, minor bleeding at the corner of his mouth, the dried up semen on his chin. The absolutely mortified look in his eyes.

”Sherlock... please...” he whispers, his hoarse voice barely audible.

”See, he wants this, John does,” whispers Toby right into my ear. ”Wanted it for years, he has. All this time he’s been looking at those lips of yours and thinking what they would look like with his prick between them.”

I can feel Toby's arousal against my behind, pushing between my bare buttocks. My skin is so tender I suspect the crop has done more damage than I predicted, possibly even a few cuts, judging by the burning sensation when Toby rubs himself against certain spots. He holds on the choke collar with one hand, keeping me in place, while the other holds the gun, which is now pressed securely between my shoulder blades, the barrel of it pointing to the back of my head. It doesn't take long to decide that I cannot allow him to shoot me: in the right angle, the bullet might miss my skull and go straight through the soft tissue of my mouth, hitting John in the stomach.

”Well, go on, John, give it to him now that you can!” Toby says and tightens his pull on the collar to get me to lift my head up higher. ”I'll make sure he won't get away!”

John, however, appears paralysed. So I raise my bound hands and take his soft piece of flesh between my fingers. John lets out a gasp as I ease his penis against my lips and give its underside a tentative lick.

From behind me sounds a triumphant laughter. Toby’s fully erect cock feels hot and slippery as it now slides in between my thighs, making wet sounds that turn my stomach. He is pressed so close to me that the buttons of his inane vest dig into my back, probably leaving a row of little circles on my skin. The dots must clash horribly with the stripes left by the crop. I try to concentrate on that thought. Anything but what I’m doing to John’s now quickly growing erection.

”Go on, John,” Toby repeats. “Fuck his mouth. This is what you’ve fantasised about, innit? Told me all about it, his years of pining for you. I took him out for a pint, after I saw him storm out of your flat the other night. Did he tell you? Spilled his guts to me, he did.”

John whimpers. He places his hands on my head, pushes his fingers in my hair. He doesn’t pull at it, just runs his fingertips through the curls, almost as if he is massaging my scalp. I can tell John is making every effort to keep from thrusting into my mouth. He will only allow the head of his cock to enter his mouth, not an inch more.

“Said something had happened between you two,” Toby continues, as if we were having a nice chat and not forced oral sex. “Said that he had finally had his chance to get off with you, but that he couldn’t. And d’know why? ‘Cos the poor bastard is so in love with you, he couldn’t settle for a pity-fuck!”

This seems to amuse Toby, who roars with self-satisfied laughter and buries his teeth into my neck. I, in turn, focus on the thought of what sound he will make when I remove those teeth, one by one.

Apparently satisfied that I will do as I’m told, Toby lets go of the choke collar and allows his hand to wander around my chest, rubbing and pinching my nipples in an agonising way. Combined with the sensation of having John in my mouth, of actually feeling his hardness against my tongue and tasting him at his barest, it is having a most undesirable effect.

It is just piece of flesh, I tell myself. Nothing more. And yet my body reacts violently.

I don't understand. I hate it when I don't understand.

Toby is rutting against me now, clearly very much aroused by what he is doing to us, the power he has over us.

Then it happens. I don’t want it to happen, I try to wish it away, but it is of little use. My erection is growing impossibly, ridiculously fast.

And the worst thing is, Toby notices it, too. He backs off just enough to reach around me and find my hardened organ.

“Oh my, Sherlock. Enjoying this, are you?” Toby pulls me off John and turns me towards him instead, looking both surprised and utterly pleased. “Like to be used like this, do you? Well then…”

Suddenly, an idea comes to him. It can actually be seen arriving.

“On your back, Sherlock.”

“No, please,” John tries weakly, but of course Toby is not listening. The gun is being brandished in my direction in an encouraging fashion, and so I follow the order and turn around. My legs appreciate the rest, but the other parts of me can’t help but fear the change will be for the worse.

”What a beautiful fucking sight you are,” Toby says, licking his lips and fisting his cock as he watches me lie down on the mattress in front of him. ”Must've made poor John so mad, having to look at this--” Toby lets the gun slide up across my chest all the way to my face. ”--such fucking beauty, and not get to touch it. All that white meat, and this...”

Suddenly he is down there with me, sitting on my thighs, straddling me. His weigh on me means more pressure on my sore behind, and I can’t help grimacing every time my body shifts against the mattress. His hand wraps around my shaft, pulling it closer to his own leaking organ. When he grabs both of them into one hand and presses them together, I let out a cry, which he clearly interprets as a sound of pleasure instead of disgust.

”Brilliant. Long and thin and just fucking brilliant. You know, you should've just let me have this the first night and none of this shit need’ve happened.”

He lets go of our erections for long enough to pick up a tube of lubricant off the floor. I notice the same pile of props includes a number of condoms, as well. So it appears ours is a careful rapist.

”See, I was gonna fuck your pretty arse, just like I was supposed to that first night, but now that I hear you’ve still got your cherry waiting to be popped, I think I want to make it a bit more special. Make it last, yeah? And, of course, John’ll need his share, only fair...”

And as he speaks, he fists my cock and starts pumping it in a slow rhythm.

It takes me a second to fully comprehend why he would do such a thing. I am not to be raped. Not yet anyhow. I am, however, about to be... what? Used, like a toy?

”You seem to have gone a bit soft there, mate. I can't be arsed to shag a floppy cock. John, why don't you make him hard for me again.”

There is a terrified look in John's eyes as he asks breathlessly, ”H-how?”

Toby considers this for a while, then turns to me. ”Sherlock here will probably know best what turns him on. What do you want John to do? A bit of snogging? Rubbing your nipples maybe? I know you liked that. Or should we make John touch himself, get off on your face?” I don’t know how he interprets my expression of shock as a yes, but he does. “You’d like that, eh? Go on, then, John.”

John just stands there, hovering above me, and with the spotlights shining at him from behind, he looks unearthly, entirely unreal. The collar moves up and down as he swallows, hard.

”Go on, have a wank!” There is little jest left in Toby's voice, and he's starting to fiddle with the gun again.

Brows knitted tightly as if he was in physical pain, John kneels down on the edge of the mattress, right above my head. He doesn't look at me but keeps his eyes on the wall somewhere past me as he wraps his shaky hand around himself and starts to masturbate. He is pumping his cock fiercely, almost aggressively. It is a painful thing to watch, all that anger and humiliation present on his face. And yet I feel my traitorous cock twitch every time John makes some low grunting noise.

Unfortunately, I'm not the only one who notices the effect John is having on my body.

”Fucking hell, Sherlock. You do like to watch him, don't you?” Toby grabs my painfully hard erection in hand and gives it an achingly slow twist. ”This is definitely going up me arse. Long and slim like that, just what a bloke wants. So fucking perfect...”

I hear the sound of foil tearing, and soon something tight and slippery is rolled over my erection. A condom, I suspect, but cannot look. Then comes a coolness that spreads over the latex, accompanied by a sickeningly wet sound. Now I glance down and find Toby slicking me up with long, slow moves. Up and down, up and down. From the corner of my eye I notice John has slowed down his rhythm as well, to match what Toby's doing to me.

For just a moment I catch John's eye, and there is so much emotion there it is almost overwhelming to catalogue: anger and humiliation, a world of confusion. But there is also something else, something quite familiar. Something I not only recognise, but remember as well. And that night is not something I would ever want to delete.

John is aroused. Very much so, in fact. He is aroused by the sight of my erection.

As I stare at John, I realise something is happening in my nether-regions. Toby has let go of my penis and is reaching behind himself, apparently inserting his lubricated fingers inside his own anus. This appears to bring him some pleasure, which he is then quick to announce to the rest of us with theatrically loud moans. Thinking my time has come, I push myself up onto one elbow and try to reach for the gun, which is now resting on my stomach, held only loosely in Toby's other hand. But it appears he fucks himself with one eye open.

”Nuh-uh,” he says, tightening his hold and pointing the gun directly at me. ”I'm gonna fuck your brains out, Sherlock. So I need you to concentrate, yeah? John.” The gunpoint shifts from my face to John's. ”Yeah, you wanker. You can help me out, yeah? Hold him down for me, will you?”

John's hand stops instantly. He doesn't say anything, just stares at Toby in disbelief.

”Yeah, you heard me. Take Sherlock's hands and pin them down over his head.” And when John is still not moving, he shouts, ”NOW!”

The gun is shaking in Toby's hand as he continues working himself open with the other. If he fires at me now, there is no telling where the bullet will land. So reluctantly, I push my arms up on the mattress until they meet John's bended knees. Then his warm fingers wrap around mine, and for a brief moment, all is good.

”Sit on them,” Toby commands, and John looks at him questioningly. ”Sit on his hands. Pin them under yours legs. And now, Sherlock...”

Just as John moves closer and slides my hands underneath his shins, Toby lifts up his hips and wraps his hand around the base of my cock. Before I realise what is happening, the tight, hot pressure engulfs me. I look down and see Toby sit himself down on my shaft, easing it inside him bit by bit. He moans and groans and makes all kinds of silly faces, obviously intended to convey his immense pleasure, but I can tell that there is also some degree of discomfort. He sits still for a good while before starting to move his hips slowly, carefully.

”Fucking hell, you feel so good,” he breathes, sounding more sincere this time. He shifts his position slightly and lets out a shameless moan. ”Yeah, that's the spot. Your cock is fucking  _perfect_ , it hits just the right... Fuuuuck!”

I assume Toby has found the best angle to stimulate his prostate, as he keeps spitting out expletives with every push down. I, on the other hand, am in pain. My skin burns, as the cuts on my arse tear open, and Toby’s every movement hurts like acid being poured down my buttocks.

”Wanky-wank, John...” Toby suddenly reminds between moans, apparently remembering John's presence. ”I didn't tell you... Fuck-fuck-fuck... To stop... I want... Aah...! I want you to... to come all over his fucking face... Fucking do it or I blow Sherlock's balls off!”

I can't watch it, yet I feel it when John continues masturbating. I can hear the leather straps on his wrists rub against each other as his hands move back and forth somewhere quite close to my head. And at the other end of me, Toby has his free hand around his own cock, pumping it in sync with the movement of his hips. I feel trapped between two pulsing, leaking pieces of flesh, while my own is being violated by some deranged young man's arse.

I'm panicking and it is not good. And the fact that the only words I can come up with to describe my present situation are ‘not good’ means things are  _really_  not good.

”Sherlock...” I hear John whisper above me, and I glance at him, eyes wide with terror. ”Breathe. You have to breathe.”

It is only then that I notice that I have been holding my breath ever since Toby sat down on my cock. However, as soon as I pick it up again - empty my lungs in one long blow through the mouth, then inhale deeply through the nose - the benefits of oxygen deprivation become obvious. All of a sudden I can feel everything happening to my penis, the sweet hot tightness around it, the slow, teasing thrusts down which seem to be pushing me towards climax in a matter of seconds.

”No-no-no-no!” I shout out, lift my head up and try to lift my hands, as well. But they are stuck, trapped beneath John's legs. My struggling throws John off balance, and he falls forward and straight onto me. His bound hands thump against my chest, his elbows following close behind.

”Fuck yeah, Johnny! Just like that, shove it in... Aaahh...! Shove it in deep...” Toby exclaims as soon as the tip of John's penis touches my lips. ”Fuck that mouth...”

But John hesitates, shaking his head. I wonder what has changed from just a moment ago, when I could feel his flesh grow against my tongue. Is it the fact that Toby is riding me, is it too much for John to watch?

”John. It’s all right,” I say, lowering my voice. “I think… I think it might help.”

And I leave my mouth open for him.

It takes John a few more deep breaths to decide. Then he moves towards me until his thighs press on either side of my face. Cautiously I glimpse at the purple head of John's erection, which is now hanging only inches above my face. He leans forward, both hands wrapped around his cock as he starts stroking himself again, but now the tip of his cock is pushing against my open lips. With every stroke it dips into my mouth, just a little, but enough to spread its taste onto my tongue. I can't really swallow him, not in this position, but I can lick him, I can kiss him.

I was right. It does help.

It appears Toby, too, notices the difference that having John's cock in my mouth makes. He lets out a yelp and starts to ride me, really truly  _ride_ me, slamming down against my groin hard enough to leave bruises. But I ignore it. I have John to keep my occupied, and it is all I need right now. Every time he pushes against my lips, I try to suck him in a bit deeper, keep the tip of my tongue on him even when he jerks back, circle the head of his cock again and again, blow hot air on it and then lick the dried skin till he makes the most exquisite noises.

”Sherlock...” John's voice is full of warning, but I fail to see to what danger he is referring. Toby sounds as if he is close, extremely close, and the moment he comes, I intend to reach for the gun again.

”Sherlock,” John repeats, more urgently this time. ”I'm going to... I'm going to...”

It is less than a second before it happens that I understand what John means. The sperm lands mostly on my face and chest, and a good deal of it ends up in my mouth. It is the odd, sour taste, filling my mouth, that is almost enough to make me orgasm. Almost. Because within seconds of John's ejaculation, I feel a second batch hit my stomach, accompanied by Toby's unashamed scream, which soon turns into laughter.

”Fuck, Sherlock! You're fucking covered in spunk!” As if that declaration isn't enough, he smears his spent cock against my abdomen, drawing circles in the load of sperm. ”You look fucking gorgeous! You should be, like, covered in jizz all the time, cos you look fucking amazing. Doesn't he look amazing, John?”

I hear no reply from John.

”But I'm not done with you yet,” Toby continues, abandoning the quickly drying sperm on my skin. ”Oh, no. I'm not gonna leave here before I've fucked that delicious arse of yours. You wanna join me, John? We could take turns, pound him till we're too raw to go on? Fill him up, yeah?”

Toby sits back on his heels and my burning, swollen cock slips out of him with a wet sound. I'm so far over the edge that I nearly come when he wraps his fingers around the base and rolls the condom off.

”Won't be needing that anymore. Unless you wanna try him out, John? I suppose you'll need some time to recover, yeah, an old man like you? But don't worry, Sherlock, I'll be up and ready in no time. Actually, we'd better start prepping you already, wouldn't want to hurt myself on your tight virgin arse!”

And he laughs, as if he has cracked a good one, possibly the week's best. All I can think of is when will he let go of the gun for long enough for me to attack him. But the gun remains in his hand at all times, and for the most of it, it is pointed directly at John. The boy may be a witless scumbag, but he does have enough brain cells to recognise which one of us to threaten in order to ensure my full co-operation.

”Go on, get up. I'm not gonna bugger you here.” When I don’t get to my feet fast enough, Toby gives my aching behind a slap. “Bend over that table there. Hurry up, or the only stretching you'll get is when my big fat cock tears you open!”

With effort, I manage to stagger up on my feet and make it to the table Toby has designated as the place where I am to be raped. The sperm has now dried almost entirely, leaving my chest and stomach itching as if being poked at with tiny pins. I feel it complements nicely the burning sensation on my backside.

As ordered, I bend over the padded surface, bury my face in the clinical smell of the fake leather. Scenarios are running through my mind. A back-kick might make him lose his balance, possibly even double over, if I managed to hit his scrotum. After that it should be easy enough to disarm him.

But Toby makes that plan void by following me to the table with the gun pressed against John's right temple.

“My, what a pretty shade of pink your arse is. Still bleeding, too,” Toby says almost proudly as he runs his hand over my behind, not even trying to avoid hitting the worst cuts. ”You wanna do the honours, John? Stretch him open for me, yeah? Two fingers will do. Don't want him too loose, mind. That'd spoil the fun!”

And he laughs. But John is hardly laughing.

”No,” John says quite vehemently, and I can feel the two men struggling behind me. ”No, I’m not doing that. NO!”

”A bit squeamish, are you, about putting your fingers up his arse?” Toby lets out a snort. “Then why don't you use your mouth, eh? Spread your legs, will you, Sherlock.”

I can feel John's body tense up against me. He is clearly trying to pull away, but as long as the gun is in the wrong hands, there's not much he can do.

”On your knees, that's right. And now, give it a little kiss. Go on.”

Again there's some struggle, as John stubbornly refuses to obey. I'm just about to push myself up and join the fight, when I hear the slap (back of the hand, on John's cheek, possibly hitting the nose as well), followed by Toby's enraged shouting and something cold being pressed between my buttocks.

”Fucking kiss his arse or I'll shove this up there!!”

That seems to be the breaking point for John. When the gun between my cheeks is replaced by John's head, I can tell that he is crying, and it turns my stomach. He is being forced to do something so despicable, so revolting, that it has brought him to tears. And when his lips land on my pucker, I gasp as much from humiliation as I do from pleasure. This must end. I must end this. I must end  _him._

”Lick it,” I hear Toby order. I feel John comply.

The sensation is extraordinary, quite unlike anything I have ever experienced. My arousal, which seemed to be dying down with the threat of anal rape, appears to be returning and with force. John gives my arsehole another tentative lick, and I call out his name. I want to shout that I'm sorry he has to do what he is doing - and that I'm sorry that I don't want him to ever stop doing it. My cock is rubbing against the edge of the table, and I feel the tension rise and rise with every lick John takes.

”Push your tongue in. Push it!”

Toby gives John a shove and he nearly falls against my behind, his face buried deep between my cheeks. And then it's there, the hot, wet tip of John's tongue, as he stabs at my hole, forces it inside as far as it goes.

”Tastes good, eh? Fucking hell, that's sexy, watching you give Sherlock a rimming. It's making me hard again so fast...”

And then I hear it, the sound I have been waiting for. The condom. Toby is opening yet another condom package, to protect himself while he violates me. But in order to do that, he will have to let go of the gun for just a second. And a second is all I need.

He pushes John aside, puts down the gun to free his hands and starts to roll on the condom. I place my palms against the table, dig my fingernails into the soft black padding, and prepare to spring up and charge the man I have decided to kill.

However, as soon as I am up, it is evident my efforts won’t be needed.

John has wrapped his bound hands around Toby's throat and is choking him with a fierce, animal-like look on his distorted face. He doesn't say a word, just keeps the pressure on Toby's oesophagus, pulling at his shackles so hard he may well cut through his own skin, possibly cut a ligament or two. But John doesn't seem to mind the pain. He just keeps choking the man until his eyes slide shut and his body falls limp. I count the seconds just as I know John must be doing, and only then does he let the man drop to the floor with a thump.

For a while we both remain silent, just staring at the unmoving body at our feet.

”Is he dead?” I finally ask.

”I don't know. I don’t care.” John is not looking well. He is too calm, too quiet, like a wax doll.

”I care,” I say, and give the body a good kick in the stomach. No response. Then I bent down to check his pulse. ”He's alive. Good. His untimely death would have interfered with my plans to kill him.”

”Sherlock, you can't kill him,” John says, colour returning to his face and some sanity to his voice. ”There's tons of forensic evidence. Our DNA is all over him.”

I consider this for a moment, and decide John is right. Of course, he is right. But I refuse to let this sick bastard go, not just like that, not without making certain he will never be able to do something like this again.

He will never hurt my John again.

I take the condom, which Toby has dropped to the floor, and pull it out, stretch it all the way open. Then I grab the unconscious man's penis and tie the condom around the base of it, tighten it as much as I possibly can, and knot it.

”For how long do you think he will remain unconscious?” I ask as I rummage through the pile of props for the key to the shackles.

No answer.

”John?”

As soon as I find the keys, I get up and go to free him. His wrists look hideous: the hard straps have chafed deep cuts on both of them and as soon as the shackles are removed, blood starts trickling slowly down his hands. Luckily nothing seems broken or even sprained, despite the force with which he tried to choke the bastard. I move on to take the collar off his neck and throw it as far away from us as I possibly can. Only then do I start to remove my own shackles.

”John? Are you all right?”

I take his face between my hands and force him to look at me. His eyes are still watery, his cheeks flushed from the strain of the attack.

”Yeah... Yeah, I'm OK. It's just... Jesus, Sherlock.” Then he seems to remember what I had asked him. ”I... I don't know. He could be out for ten minutes. Half an hour, maybe.”

Reluctantly I let go of John's face and return to the unmoving body on the floor.

”And how long does it take for gangrene to develop?”

”Longer than that.”

”Then we'll just have to help nature along a little,” I say as I pull the gun out from the back of Toby's chaps. ”Go and find some vodka, would you, John.”

He looks at me with raised brows, but asks nothing. As John hurries off the stage and towards the bar, I place the gun in Toby's limp hand, wrap my own hand around his, and press the barrel against his penis.

Without a pause, I pull the trigger. I find it is not quite as satisfactory as kicking him to a bloody pulp, but seeing his cock explode into a mess of blood and tissue does have its merits.

”Sherlock!” John shouts, staggering back with a vodka bottle. ”What did you...?!”

I snatch the bottle from his hands and pour it generously over the remains of Toby's organ. Something seems to waken him up (the bang? the pain? the burning?), and he starts to come to with an annoying whine.

”Toby? Can you hear me?” I ask, turning his head toward me and nearly shouting into his face. ”Stop making that incessant noise and listen: I have taken away only one of your extremities. Should you want to keep the rest of them, I suggest you never come near John or myself again. Is that understood?”

He either tries to nod or look down at his groin, but I decide to interpret that as a yes. Quickly I proceed to shove the vodka bottle to his lips and start to pour the alcohol down his throat. He coughs and spits, but a fair amount ends up in his stomach as well, and when I decide he has had enough, I take the bottle and bang him hard over the head with it. He falls unconscious onto the stage once more, with the gun in one hand and the carefully placed vodka bottle in the other.

”Have you seen his clothes?”

John indicates backstage, and true enough, there they are, all hurriedly thrown across the floor behind the curtain. I find the phone in his jacket and dial the number as I return to John.

”Hello? Hello? Please, you have to help me! I'm hurt, I... I shot myself, I'm bleeding, please you have to help me! I'm at…” And I give the address. “Please hurry!”

I hang up.

”I think we ought to leave now,” I tell John, and he nods in agreement, still staring at Toby's bloody body in front of him.

We collect our clothes in silence, and leave before the paramedics arrive.

Outside, John makes a feeble attempt to go his separate way, but without even trying to argue with him, I escort him into the back of the first available taxi. We head towards Baker Street in silence.

 

///

 

John is still behaving like a poor imitation of himself when I close the door to our flat. When I ask him something, he answers with few words, most often just one. He doesn’t seem tired - in fact, his eyes stare wide open, though I doubt he sees much - so I discard the idea of taking him straight to bed. And since eating appears to be out question, as well, this leaves me with only one thing I can think of that people tend to do after a stressful incident.

I help him get undressed while I run the bath for him. Oddly enough, he doesn’t resist, not even when I pull down his pants and kneel down on the bathroom floor to ease the socks off his feet. Before I help him into the tub, I take a quick look at the external damage: the cuts on his neck and wrists look nasty, but his behind is merely red and swollen. It is nothing a bit of disinfectant and cream won’t heal. However, even I realise the true damage is on the inside and, save from pouring disinfectant down his throat, that is beyond my reach.

The room is quickly filling with steam, and I’m sweating in my suit. I start to pull the jacket off, but John takes one look at me and I stop with my hands still half-way down the sleeves. There is sheer terror in his eyes.

“John?” I shrug the jacket quickly back on. “What is it?”

But John just stares at me with those round, terrified eyes, which I don’t understand.

Then, suddenly, I do, in a way which still makes no sense.

“No, I wasn’t going to... Of course not. How could you think… Perhaps it’s best if I…”

As I am apparently unable to finish a meaningful sentence, I close my mouth for a second and reach for the medicine cabinet.

“I’ll just take something for my…” I rummage through the shelves till I find the supplies needed for patching up one’s posterior after being beaten with a riding crop, and make for the door. “I’ll leave you to your bath.”

John appears to snap out of the state he is in - whatever that may be - and turns so quickly in the tub that water splashes onto the floor and right onto his bundled clothes.

“Wait. You’ll need help with… Just wait, OK?” He takes the shampoo bottle and applies it generously. “This… I won’t take long, and when I’m done, I’ll have a look at those cuts.”

“John, I’m perfectly capable--”

“ _I’m_  supposed to be the bloody doctor!” he exclaims. The bottle of shampoo quivers in his hand as if reading for take-off, so before it can make contact with my already sore body, I quickly return the bandaging to the cabinet.

So I wait. Soon enough, John exits the bathroom wrapped in a towel, and while he gets dressed, I take a short and cool shower. I gasp, when the water finds the broken skin, but keep to my decision not to let a sound reach John’s ears. At least one of us needs to remain unaffected by what’s happened.

After the shower, however, comes the truly painful part.

It is a most extraordinary feeling to be standing naked in front of John, while he inspects the state of my behind. It isn’t the least bit erotic or arousing or any of the things silly-minded people would have it be. Not even with John wearing nothing more than a towel, as his clothes are still too wet and he refuses to borrow mine. Not even when his fingertips slide very close to my genitalia, as he pats the disinfectant onto the cuts. Not even when he has to kneel down behind me to reach the welt on the back of my thigh.

No, it is awkward and clinical and actually quite agonising. Of course it is.

John makes an awful lot of ‘tsk’ sounds, not to mention an inordinate amount of sighs, which has me thinking things may well be worse off back there than I anticipated. But when he finally straightens himself and tells me to get dressed, I find I’m more concerned about him than myself.

“Thank you,” I say, as it seems appropriate. But when John doesn’t reply or even look at me, I begin to suspect it isn’t. “John?”

John just shakes his head. So many expressions pass over his face that I find it difficult to focus on any particular one.

“Please, don’t thank me. Just.. don’t.”

He goes to get his clothes, which continue to sport large dark, damp patches, and starts putting them on.

“John. You are not leaving. Not in wet clothes. Not when you’re clearly…” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. “I won’t have you leave. Not now. Not again.”

He looks like he is about to argue, but luckily right at that minute, the damp trousers get tangled around his legs, nearly tipping him over, and he has no choice but to take them off again.

“Good,” I say and kick his clothes to a safe distance. There is no way I’m going to let John leave here tonight, even if it means burning his clothes. And it’s notoriously laborious to get wet fabric to ignite. “You can have my bed. Yours is still upstairs, but as you took the mattress with you, I think you’d find it a bit uncomfortable.”

John shakes his head. “No.” He wraps the towel tighter around himself and marches to the sofa. “No.”

I watch him sit down with a cringe.

“Fine. Suit yourself. I probably won’t sleep anyhow.” I find John looking up at me, clearly expecting something. “What?”

“Aren’t we going to talk about what happened?”

“Definitely not.” I pick up the violin. “If you insist on staying out here, I assume you won’t mind if I play for a while? I need to think.”

John waves his hand as a go-ahead.

I choose Mahler. To bring some beauty into all this ugliness.

John tries his best to stay awake, but drifts off eventually. When his breathing tells me he is fast asleep, I go over to put a blanket on him. Even in his sleep, he looks stressed, his eyes moving rapidly behind his closed lids, his hands twitching every now and then.

I am well aware that a normal person would be shaken up by tonight’s events, even traumatised, and in many respects, John is normal. But he is also the most unique person I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.

For a moment I wonder what would happen if I lifted the blanket and put his penis in my mouth. Just for a bit. Just to have another taste. And then, if that didn’t wake him, maybe I could suck him off in his sleep. Even though our experience tonight cannot be described as educational, I now believe I understand the basic mechanics of the act and am fairly certain I could bring him to orgasm with my mouth.

After a second thought, I decide this is probably one of those petty consent issues and if he should wake up and find me sucking his penis, it might not be met with enthusiasm, especially considering all that has happened today. So I settle for kneeling down by the sofa and resting my head on the edge of it, right next to John’s hip.

I imagine the things I would do to him. Obscene, unspeakable things. If only he would let me.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still more to come - hope you stay with me! :)


	6. In which John comes back and Sherlock finally comes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now betaed by the amazing **sideris**!
> 
> No warnings this time - it's all rather sweet and innocent :)

I wake up on the floor next to an empty sofa and with a blanket over me. I recognise it as the same blanket I put on John after he fell asleep last night. On the sofa. Which is now empty.

“John?” I call out. There is an anxiety in my voice, which I don’t even try to hide. “JOHN!”

“What? Stop shouting,” comes the reply from the kitchen, and soon John steps into view. He is wearing his own clothes, which appear to be dry but terribly wrinkled, and holding a carton of milk between his fingertips as if it were something toxic. “What is it?”

“Nothing. I thought you’d gone.”

“Well, I haven’t. But I think I might have to.”

“No!” I scramble to my feet. My dressing gown slips open, but I can’t seem to find the belt. I grasp at the lapels to make myself presentable but fail. Not much seems to be going my way this morning. “No, I… I want you to stay, John.”

John tilts his head and takes an odd look at me. I continue to struggle with the stupid gown to make myself less indecently exposed.

“No, I meant I might have to go to the shops,” he says slowly, as if I wouldn’t understand him otherwise. “There’s no food, Sherlock. When have you last eaten?”

“I don’t know. When did you leave me?”

“Two days ago!”

“Then it must have been before that. I remember the milk tasted a bit funny.”

John sighs and goes back to the kitchen with the milk carton, which I now suspect might actually be toxic.

“I’ll pop out to get… everything,” he says as he goes through the kitchen door to the hall to get his jacket. “Back in half an hour.”

In actual fact, it takes John twice that long, but I'm too relieved to see him return to point that out. In those forty minutes I have changed my shirt five times, my suit twice, and re-done my hair over a dozen times. All of this done with a certain amount of discomfort, thanks to the still healing marks on my backside.

It is entirely possible that John wouldn't read too much into what colour shirt I happen to be wearing or how well my suit fits, but the remarks he made when I lay tied up and sexually frustrated on my own bed, did not escape me. So I decide on the tightest shirt I can find - the buttons are barely holding it together - and the suit which most looks like it's been painted on me.

I have had time think about what I want to say to him, and when he finally does come back, I waste no time in saying my piece.

”I am sorry, John.”

He is still standing in the hall with his coat and scarf and gloves on, the bag of groceries on the floor by his feet. Without a word he starts to take his coat off, hangs it in its rightful place. This excruciatingly slow ritual is followed by a detour to the kitchen, where he puts away the shopping, before finally joining me in the living room. He settles in his armchair, leans back and cups the ends of the armrests with his hands while pressing the soles of his shoes together. Just as he always does. The world seems right once more.

”You're sorry,” he repeats. ”I thought you didn’t want to have this conversation, but I guess we’re having it now. So, you're sorry for what exactly?”

”Isn't it obvious?”

”No,” he says, shaking his head. ”No, it really isn't. No.”

”I think it is.”

”Well, it bloody isn't!” John snaps. He wraps his fingers tighter around the armrests, his knuckles turning quickly pale. ”Sherlock, I did things that... Things that I can't undo.”

”Yes.”

” _Yes_?” He cocks his head, blinking in disbelief. ” _I put my cock in your mouth_ , _Sherlock_.” He takes a few deep breaths, but they seem to be doing very little to calm him down. “For God's sake, I got off on your fucking face! And _you're_ the one saying _sorry_?! Jesus Christ!”

John is stressing far too many words for me to distinguish, with which part he is most uncomfortable.

”I don't understand,” I say. Because I don't. ”Why would you feel responsible for something you were forced to do?”

John opens both his mouth and his eyes as wide as they can possibly go. I take this to be an expression of outrage - although a plausible case could be made for a kidney stone attack, as well.

”I wasn't _forced_ to do anything!” John huffs and puffs, rolling his wide eyes. ”You can't just _force_ a bloke to get hard and--”

He has to take a moment. I wholeheartedly agree.

It is quiet, incredibly quiet. One could quite literally hear a pin drop if it weren't for the clock on the wall, which is making such an awful racket that I'm already formulating a plan on the quickest way to get it down and into numerous pieces, when John opens his mouth again.

”I could have stopped it from happening,” he says. The tone of his voice is completely different from before. Resigned. Apologetic. And very annoying. ”When I bumped into Toby in the street the night I left, I didn’t think it was anything more than a coincidence.”

“People rarely expect to be stalked,” I cut in.

“Yeah, well,” John waves away my generous attempt to mitigate the severity of his blunder. “Then we had a few drinks, and it was nice. He even offered to help me move out.” John cringes. “I did think it a bit odd that he kept asking about Mrs Hudson and how close we were and whether she ever complained about the noise. But I didn’t think he was scouting for a place where he could…”

Again he cringes. As it is clearly so agonising for him to be telling me all this, I almost beg him to stop. What I don’t already know isn’t worth the trouble, and I find it difficult to watch John suffer any more than he already has. But the man seems determined to carry on, to get it all out.

“We took the stuff to Harry’s, and I agreed to go out with him again later in the evening. But when we got out of the taxi in front of that club...” John’s voice drifts off. I notice he doesn’t mention the gun, doesn’t offer any excuses for letting himself be captured. “I couldn’t fight him off.” John shrugs, helpless. ”I just wasn’t strong enough. So you had to come to my rescue - again - and I did all that disgusting stuff to you, and you had to endure it because of me. Not to mention what I'd already done to you before, which was…” Out of breath and lost for words, John gets up and starts for the door. He is not looking at me any more. “I'm sorry. So very sorry, Sherlock. It’s all my fault. That’s all I really had to say so… I think it’s best if I go now.”

I get up as well and raise my hands in surrender. It is theatrical, I know, but I reckon John’s level of upset demands something dramatic.

”Fine. If you want to be the one to blame, then by all means, take the blame. Because none of this would have happened if you hadn’t irritated me with your questions about my sex life. So, I take back my apology - this is entirely your fault.”

“W-what? You sleeping with strangers who turn out to be fucking mental is _my fault_?”

“Please, John. Why do you think I cooked up this charade in the first place?”

John's staring at my neck now, quite possibly planning the most efficient way of strangling me to death. I could, of course, make a suggestion, but I decide not to. Regardless of the pain this conversation is causing me, I'm not feeling quite that self-destructive.

”So, that whole 'arrangement' was just that. A charade,” he finally says. ”The spanking sessions or what have you. It was all just to wind me up.”

To shut him up, to be precise, but I refrain from making the distinction.”I simply wanted you to stop shoving your nose in my private life,” I say instead. ”But that obviously didn’t work out too well.”

”It really didn't.”

”In fact, one might argue you ended up shoving your nose even deeper. Or your tongue at least.”

I glance at him cautiously, try to see if there is any possibility of John taking this a little more lightly. But no. Not a hint of smile, not even a quick grin. The man stands in front of me stern as a statue.

”Right,” he huffs. ”So when you told Toby that you'd never...”

”Yes,” I say. I can at least help him out, as a way of apology. ”There has never been anyone. Before your fingers, that is.”

“Yeah, thanks a lot for reminding me. I’d hate to forget what I did.”

“As would I. But I’m given to understand people rarely forget their first sexual encounter.” John just stares at me, so I feel obliged to elaborate. “Although according to the literature, there is some dissent whether it counts as sex for me, as there wasn’t any actual penetration and my role was rather passive.”

Apparently that is the wrong thing to say. Again. I wish they’d write down some instructions on how to deal with this type of situation. How else am I supposed to know what to say and when!

“No,” John says, his face white as a sheet. “No, that wasn’t sex. That was _rape_ , Sherlock. I tied you up and just took what I wanted. My God, how am I any different from Toby?” He inhales deeply, gathers up the last of his pent-up frustration and throws it right at me. “And do you know the worst part? Every time I think about what I did, I become aroused. Yeah.” John is nearly laughing, quite scarily. “That’s just how sick and twisted I am. Even now, all I have to do is just look at you standing there in that tight shirt, and I remember what you looked like lying on the bed and... And Jesus, I'm already up like a bloody flagpole! I’ve ruined it, I’ve ruined everything...”

On that rather hysterical note, he leaves the room.

There's a lot to take in, but I do take it, as quickly as I can. I go through the evidence, sweep away the redundant layers of sentiment, disclose the true meaning behind his words. I organise, categorise, interpret. And I find the results are rather to my liking.

I catch him on the first landing, grab him by the arm and swing him around. John seems surprised, almost as much as I am.

”What Tony did to you at gunpoint was despicable.”

“Toby, but who cares any more,” John mutters in between.

“He _touched_ you, John.” I pause and force John to meet my eyes. ”He touched you against your will, and for that, I would have happily taken his life, if you hadn't stopped me.”

There’s a hint of a smile at the corner of John’s mouth. ”You did take out his cock, though.”

He doesn't appear pleased to be standing in the staircase, halfway between here and there, but he is doing nothing to break free from my hold, either. I lock eyes with his before I can utter the words that need to be said, no matter how uncomfortable they make me.

”John, what I'm trying to say is that when you touched me, it wasn't... It wasn't entirely against my will.”

No response. His eyes stare straight ahead, his lips remain closed. I doubt even his nostril quiver.

“John?”

That is it. My message clearly hasn’t been received - or it has been rejected. It is impossible to tell - and thanks to the lack of instructions, I have no more words with which to express myself. So, sod it.

Without more thought on the matter, I press my mouth against John's.

Now, before John, I've only kissed six people in my life.

Three of those times were by highly intoxicated young women and included a lot of giggling and far too much groping.

Once I was molested by an equally intoxicated young man, who didn't giggle but definitely copped a feel, front and back.

And one instance, as far as I could tell, was for a bet. That one was the easiest of them all: no giggles, no touching, only the barest minimum of contact. Although, this taking place in a boarding school, meant everyone knew about it within five minutes of its occurrence and they kept reminding me of the fact for the next three weeks. It would have possibly gone on even longer, had Wiggy Perkins not had that - for him - unfortunate incident with the zip.

The last one was, of course, that sick bastard, whose name I have now happily forgotten and will not even attempt to recollect.

Hence, based on my insufficient pool of data, I'm not entirely sure of the proper procedure. I daren’t risk venturing into the realm of open lips and tongues, but try to keep the kiss light and dry with an ordinate amount of suction.

When I release John from my hold, I can only hope the duration was satisfactory, as I seem to have lost my ability to tell time.

John stares at me, his mouth hanging slightly open, his eyes blinking as if he had just stepped out of the dark.

I take a shaky step back. My hands drop down to my groin, give my cock a mental massage by picturing how I will bring myself to orgasm in the bathroom after John has left.

”I'm... I’m sorry,” I say and look down at the floor to keep from looking at John. ”I don't know what I was thinking. This isn't... This isn't what we do, is it? This. With our mouths.”

”No,” John says, shaking his head and blinking his eyes slowly, very slowly. ”No, it isn't. No.”

“I mean, you’ve had your penis in my mouth. And your tongue in my anus. And of course, you’ve come both on my face and my backside. But we’ve never done… this.”

“No, you’re right. We haven’t. Really not.” John is silent for a while. Then, ”Could we, though?” Another pause. Enough time for me to look up at him, see the heat in his eyes, before he adds, quite unnecessarily, ”Please?”

Without allowing him time to second-guess his decision, I grab him by the waist and fling him around. With a thump he slams against the wall and is instantly assaulted by the hungry beast I seem to have turned into. The second kiss is much sloppier, much deeper. I'm painfully aware that my technique is far from flawless, so I'm more than happy to let John take charge. I dive into him, and I sink, and I drown.

It is glorious.

Kissing John is unlike anything else in the world. I have no frame of reference. I have no terminology. I am lost.

”Kissing you is like putting on the fiftieth nicotine patch,” I breathe into his mouth.

”Tried that, have you?”

”No. But I know what one does to me. And I know how to multiply.”

However, as he presses his mouth on mine again, I start to fear I may have miscalculated. A hundred patches? Closer.

At some point I realise I have both of my hands buried in John’s hair, holding him firmly in place. He is pinned to the wall, trapped by my body, and I continue to devour his mouth. The sensation is absolutely exquisite. There are sounds coming out of my throat that are only faintly human. My heart is bounding, every muscle of my body straining, but not to fight it but to drive deeper, always deeper. Deeper into John.

“Oh, my God…” John breathes into my neck. “Sherlock…”

His hands cup my buttocks and pull me even closer to him. His touch on my abused skin smarts enough to make me gasp, but I make no effort to push his hands away. On the contrary, I find that the pain merely excites me further. I want to feel his hands on me, feel his want, his need, even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts.

Just as I press my - burning, aching, screaming - groin against John's and start to grind desperately against him for some form of release, I hear someone clear their throat.

Reluctantly I turn my head away from John, only to find Mrs Hudson standing at the foot of the stairs. Judging by her flushed face and the way her hands keep shifting from her mouth to her hips to her chest, I take it she has witnessed more than enough of our encounter.

”Oh, I'm terribly sorry, boys,” she says with a shaky voice. ”You know I'm not one to disapprove. I'm happy you've patched things up, really I am. But I've got the salsa club ladies over for tea and, you see, it's getting hard to stop them from coming to see what’s going on.” She nods towards her flat. I prick up my ears and, yes, I do hear the quiet yet excited chatter of elderly ladies. And to make matters worse, the noise is getting closer by the minute, as the women totter out of Mrs Hudson’s apartment and into the downstairs hall. Evidently thin walls just aren’t thin enough for these inquisitive ladies.

I glance at John, and find him a deep shade of red and seemingly unable to lift his eyes off the floor. He has let his arms drop and his hands are now placed firmly over the front of his trousers. Muttering something unintelligible, he pushes past me and down the stairs.

”You'll be moving back in, then, dear?” Mrs Hudson asks as John storms past her.

”Yeah. Yeah. I'll just go and pack.”

”Please,” I call after him. ”You haven't unpacked a single box. They are all still there, in the back of the van, which you hired for three hours yesterday and still haven’t returned. Which is theft, by the way. I should turn you in to the police.”

But John is already out the front door.

As soon as he is gone, the first wrinkled face appears at the foot of the stairs. Then another. And another. I feel like a wild animal at a zoo. And much like a beast, I give them a roar and I retire to my lair.

 

///

 

YOU'RE A TWAT, YOU KNOW THAT?

I stare at the text for a while, not quite sure if I should be offended or not. In the end I decide it to be a fair enough assessment, so I concur.

AND I'M EVEN A BIGGER TWAT COS EVEN THOUGH I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE, I STILL WANT YOU

_Want me for what?_

Before I can reply, there’s a follow-up message:

SHIT. I DON'T KNOW. WHAT PEOPLE DO. WITH OTHER PEOPLE.

_Normal people?_

I THINK WE'RE A FEW FLIGHTS OF STEPS FROM NORMAL ALREADY.

_I agree. We're not normal. Excellent. Then come here and fuck me._

I'm slightly disgruntled not to get a reply from John, despite my unashamed provocation.

Perhaps that would have been too normal, anyway.

 

///

 

Exactly an hour and six minutes later, John arrives. I have an unexplainable urge to jump him as soon as the door closes behind him, but happily I manage to contain myself. We stare at each other for a bit, exchange greetings, comment on the dank weather. It is strange and exceedingly awkward and what makes me particularly displeased, is that there is absolutely no kissing whatsoever. Not even a peck on the cheek.

John just stands there, holding one of those same banana boxes I watched him pack just a few days ago.

”There's a few more of these downstairs, plus some other stuff. You could, maybe, give me a hand?”

That's all he says to me. Against my strict policy of never helping anyone move, I do give him a hand and carry up one box. Perhaps two. Four at the most. He doesn't thank me, doesn't offer to make me a cup of tea, barely even looks at me. Nothing.

And most importantly, he doesn't in any way imply that anything has changed between us.

We are back to status quo. No talk of sex under the roof of 221B Baker Street. Even though this is precisely what I wanted when all of this first began, I find that I deeply dislike it.

I listen to John's bed springs squeak upstairs, while I masturbate fiercely in my own bed downstairs.

 

///

 

Work takes up the next two days. It is a rather distasteful case of forgery, involving sperm donors with fake credentials and a bunch of children with ‘superior genes’, who can barely draw a straight line, let alone continue the sequence in the Mensa test. Nevertheless, I am happy to be free of the needs of the flesh for as long as the case lasts.

It doesn't last all that long.

We are both out of breath, not from chasing criminals but from having run through the heavy rain, after our cab stopped dead in a traffic jam three blocks from the flat. John slams the door shut behind us. I, in turn, slam him against the wall and press our lips together.

Dear god, it feels good. John feels good. I find it hard to understand why - how? - I have not done this more often.

After the initial kiss, in which we engaged seventy-nine hours ago, I'm feeling considerably more confident this time around. I even dare to pry John's lips open with the tip of my tongue and venture inside his warm, wet mouth. A most extraordinary sensation. I find myself half-erect after less than a minute's oral stimulation, which seems incredible.

Then, suddenly realising that I have yet to ascertain whether the feeling is mutual, I pull away from John and leave him gasping with his eyes closed, leaning heavily against the wall behind him.

”I didn't...” I start, but the words are surprisingly hard to come by. ”That was inappropriate. I should have consulted you first. Won't happen again, I promise.”

John opens his eyes slowly, blinks, then blinks again. His mouth makes a few attempts at speaking before any sound actually comes out.

”W-what? Is that it, then?”

”You want me to apologise for kissing you? Fine. I'm...” - I clear my throat, thoroughly - ”I’m sorry, John.”

”No, you git, I want you to _not stop_ doing what you're doing and I definitely want you to not apologise for it.”

There are too many negatives in that sentence for it to make any sense whatsoever, but I let it slide. Somehow the meaning behind it seems of greater relevance than the form in which it’s delivered.

”You're fine with... this?” I take a careful step forward, closing the gap between us. ”So, you do want to do this, after all? With me?”

John looks at me as if I've gone slightly mad.

”Of course, I want to do this, you git. For God's sake, Sherlock. I expected you to come and ravish me the night I moved back in, but since you acted like nothing had happened, I figured you must've had a change of heart or something.”

I only hear one word of what he says to me. _Ravish_. Just that one word, and my half-hard penis is well on its way to being fully erect.

”You thought I'd barge into your bedroom and... ravish you?” I can't keep my voice from breaking a little as I say that word. ”And would that have been a consensual ravishing or--?”

John reaches up and cups my face with both hands. He is looking very serious, very determined, but at the same time there is something vulnerable in his eyes, as well, which almost makes me want to back off for fear of ending up hurting him.

”I'm yours, Sherlock,” he says, as his thumbs trace the edges of my cheekbones. ”Of course it would've been consensual. It still could be. If you want.”

How can I say no to that? Cannot be done. Not with an erect penis, anyhow.

So I break free of his hold and press my mouth onto his again.

Somehow we make it up the stairs without Mrs Hudson peeping in - although she must have heard us in the foyer; has ears like a bat, that woman. We are an insane tangle of limbs and mouths and flying clothes as we stumble through the door, across the floor, and onto the sofa.

I fall down first, land on my back with my feet still touching the floor, and I pull John down on top of me. His wet shirt is already gone, and I marvel at the feel of his fine chest hair, the soft, damp curls curving around my fingers, tickling my palms. My own shirt is ripped open with force, the buttons hurtling in all directions. Before I get a chance to point out exactly how expensive the piece of clothing John has just ruined was, his mouth is on my skin and everything else suddenly becomes highly irrelevant. He places wet, impossibly hot kisses all over my chest.

When he stops to suck my nipples, I moan unashamedly.

This seems to encourage him further, and sucking turns into nibbling, which then turns into biting, which then turns to my yelping like a hormone-driven teenager.

All the while, I can feel his hardness rubbing against mine, my trousers getting more and more impractical by the minute. Oh, the things I want him to do to me. Dirty, nasty, amazing things. And the things I have in mind for him...

Again our mouths find each other, our bare chests rubbing together. I feel him take hold of my wrists and push them above my head, pinning them down on the sofa. I find the position extremely arousing. Our groins align and John's erection is pressing straight into mine. He starts to rock his hips, rutting against me slowly, agonisingly. Desperately I try pick up the speed, increase the pressure, but he's got me. He sets the pace. He is in control. John.

”John...” I say out loud.

That seems to snap him out of something. He lets go of my wrists, and quickly he is on his feet and staggering away from me. Too far away. Much, much too far.

”John?”

”I just... I just need a minute.”

I follow him to the kitchen, but when I reach out to touch him, he shies away.

”John, it is perfectly fine. If you don't wish to continue...”

But John is not looking fine. Quite the opposite, in fact. So much so, that I fear he may be sick on the kitchen table, against which he is leaning quite heavily. He lets out a nervous laugh.

”Oh, I want to continue,” he mutters between deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. ” _God_ , Sherlock, you don't know how much I want to. But if I don't stop now, I never will. So I need to - calm - down.”

”I don't understand. Why would you want to be calm? If you want to keep doing what we're doing, surely you’re supposed to be anything but calm?”

John glares at me, and continues his breathing exercise.

”If I don't calm down,” he says - very calmly, I might add, ”I'm not going to be able to stop.”

”Why would you want to stop?”

”Because if I keep this up, I will end up buggering you senseless whether you want it or not.”

I cannot lie. I find this statement enormously arousing. Truly, very much so. But John evidently doesn't to see it like that. So it is left to me to make him.

John looks surprised when I push his hands off the table, but it is nothing compared to the look on his face when I pull my trousers and pants down just enough to bare my behind, bend over the end of table and ask him to have me.

”Sherlock. No.”

”You said you would bugger me whether I wanted it or not. Well, as it so happens, I do want it.”

But John looks at me with such horror, that I feel the blood escaping from my penis, my astonishingly hard erection turning into mere memory. I push myself up, pull my trousers back on, and turn to face him. Obviously I have misinterpreted him in some way.

”Sherlock...” he hisses as he backs away from me. He doesn't stop until he's behind his armchair, circling it while I follow closely on his tail. It is as if we’re playing musical chairs with no music.

”If you don't want my arse, will you at least fuck my mouth? My knowledge of the act is rudimentary at best, but I'm quite eager to try. You can come down my throat as hard as you like.”

He lets out a moan. ”Please don't say things like. Not with that voice.”

”What's wrong with my voice?”

”Everything.”

And the game of non-musical chairs continues, this time in the opposite direction, which, I guess, is only wise in order to prevent dizziness. As I circle around the armchair once more, John suddenly breaks the rules and runs from me like I was truly about to maul him. He doesn't get far, however. I chase him back into the kitchen and manage to pin him against the counter. He tries to fight me off, shoves me but doesn't actually take a swing at me, even though he well could.

As soon as his attempts to free himself seem to die down a little, I take his face between my hands. That kind, silly, beautiful face of his. Still he tries to flee, to turn away from me, but my hold is firm as I press my long fingers against his cheeks and frame his surprise.

“John, I don’t think you fully appreciate the magnitude of what I’m going through. I wasn’t lying when I told you sex wasn’t really my area.”

John glances down, then closes his eyes. “You know, it would sound a lot more convincing without the erection.”

“Precisely! Only a few weeks ago there wouldn’t have been any of this--” I press my groin against his lower abdomen. The feel of John’s body against mine is quickly returning the quite concrete manifestation of my lust for him.“No spontaneous erections, no indecent thoughts, no dreams that end in a tacky mess. There was nothing - until you wrecked everything. _You_ brought this on me. And so, _you_ have to fix it.”

“And how on earth am I supposed to _fix_ your suddenly awakened libido, Sherlock?” John is nearly laughing. “Honestly. How?”

”Have me, John.”

”No. No.” he says, suddenly very serious. He tries to pull back. ”I can’t just... What happened at the club, with Toby, it's too close... And on top of that there's what I did, before that, and it's... It's just too much.”

”John. Ever since that night with you, I haven't been able to bring myself to orgasm without inserting something in my anus.” I allow him time to fully grasp what I’m saying. Judging by the movement in his pants, he does. “So let me rephrase that: I need you to have me. Right now. On that table.”

”W-why?”

”Because it is the perfect height and because that is where I do all my experiments.”

”And having sex with me is an experiment.”

”Having sex _at all_ is an experiment.”

”I really don't feel comfortable with this, Sherlock. Hurting you.”

I give this notion some thought.

”Would it help if I said something twattish first?”

John considers it for a moment.

”I don't know. Maybe. Like what?”

”Something about the size of your mother, perhaps?”

”Best not.”

”Then, I could make a derogatory comment on your physique. I could argue that the size of the penis is inadequate.”

”Again size. Why size?”

”It's traditional, John, in jokes. It seems size is of particular interest for people who go in for that sort of thing. So... Your penile length would be considered below average even for a dung beetle.”

”Yeah. Cheers. Feel like wanting to hurt you already.”

”Marvellous.” I say with a smile, then take my position at the end of the table, bare my bottom again and spread my legs, as obscenely as I possibly can. ”Now, if you would be so kind as to have your merry way with me, Doctor Watson.”

But as John moves behind me and presses his unbelievably hard and very decently sized organ against my bare buttocks, I can't help but notice that he is still wearing his trousers. He bends down to place soft kisses on my neck, then takes me by the arm and forces me to turn over.

”John?”

He just shakes his head, a resolved look on his face, and kisses me, long and deliciously, until I fear my knees will give out from under me. My cock is pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat, begging to be touched.

Suddenly he pulls his lovely mouth away and sinks to his knees. I can't see how he expects to fuck me in that position.

“John?” I ask again.

I must think. Why can’t I think? Blood. Yes, the brain requires blood. Only so much blood in a human body, most of it going the wrong way at the moment. No way to redirect the flow, the higher mental functions will suffer. What kind of idiot would have designed the vascular system to be involuntary!

”I would very much like to suck your cock now, Sherlock. If that's all right by you.”

Which would explain the kneeling. All the rest of it, however, is suddenly a great big blur to me. Due to the lack of circulation in my brain, I feel forced to re-cap out loud.

”You intend to fellate me? Here? Now?”

John smiles at me, then rubs his cheek against my swollen organ. I hold my breath as his fingertips slide gently along the shaft, tracing the curve of it, studying the veins underneath the delicate skin.

All I can do is gasp and hope I won't pass out before John takes me between those lips of his, which have started to look so tremendously inviting.

”Wait,” he says abruptly and pulls back. ”Just... wait.”

It's the most horrid thing he could possibly say at that point, and I can't help the disappointment showing clear on my face. I'm quick to collect myself, however.

”It's fine,” I say as I begin to force my erection back into my pants. ”I understand. We will pretend nothing happened. No need to explain. We'll just...”

John looks at me with surprise.

”No, no...” He clears his throat. ”Just promise you won't pull away? I mean, I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do here.”

I give him a blank stare. He looks back at me with such boyish coyness that I feel something oddly warm and not entirely unpleasant somewhere inside me.

”John. Please believe me when I say that _anything_ you do down there is fine.”

His touch is slightly shakier, when he takes my penis out again. He leans down to give my shaft a long, painfully slow lick, then glances up at me, his lips resting against the head of my penis. He is smiling.

“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve wanted to do this?” he mutters. I can feel the tremor of his words on my penis and it is making it increasingly hard for me to concentrate. “To just tear your bloody clothes off, get down on my knees and make you come in my mouth? I’ve pictured doing this when you sit by your microscope, when you play the violin, even when we’re in public. God, Sherlock…”

I can't help reaching out and pushing my fingers into his hair, grabbing hold of his head in the hope that I can keep him right where he is for ever and ever, doing exactly what he is he is doing.

”Please,” he then says.

”Why-what-now?”It's hardly a question, but considering where his mouth is, it is quite an accomplishment that I'm able to form even remotely meaningful sounds.

John gives me a shy look and breathes hot air straight at my glans. To my embarrassment, I whine.

”Just bear with me, all right?”

”Yes-yes-YES!” I shout at him. “Will you just stop saying words!”

”Right, then. Here I go.”

And John sets to work.

Although I have no valid frame of reference, what he now does to me with his mouth and his tongue and his hands is truly and objectively heavenly.

Afterwards I have a suspicion I may have screamed a little at some point. Mrs Hudson is kind enough to confirm this the next day.

 


	7. In which the toy bag returns and Sherlock finally gets what he wants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the end! 
> 
> Thank you **sideris ******for the astonishingly fast betaing!
> 
>  
> 
> **And of course, THANK YOU, all you lovely people who have read and commented and left kudos. I honestly can't tell you what it means to me! *sniff* Love you all! :)**

It is not long after John has moved his things back to Baker Street that Mrs Hudson tiptoes in with a somewhat familiar plastic bag in her hand.

”I thought you boys might want these back, now that you've made up,” she tells me, even though John is nowhere to be seen. I vaguely remember him muttering something about the shops. Possibly about going there. Who knows for what.

”The rude man, who brought the bag to the door, said it belonged to the pervert upstairs - his words, dear, not mine - and told me to do all kinds of appalling things with it, which I will not repeat.”

She hands me the bag, opening it just enough that I can get a glimpse of the arsenal of whips and ropes and dildos inside.

”I always knew you would. Make up, that is. I can always tell the couples that make it, and you two...”

She shakes her head and makes a ‘tsk-tsk’ sound which is apparently meant to convey either that we _(_ there's a ”we”?) will make it (to where?) or that we have been doomed from the start (of what?).

”So I've been holding on to these, just in case you found use for them again. Not that I approve, of course. Some nasty things you've got there, Sherlock.” She shakes her head in a very judgemental way, the old hypocrite. “I want you to promise me you won't hurt him too badly, do you hear? John is a good man, much better than anyone you can hope to find if you make a mess of this. So you behave yourself now, won't you, dear?”

I, of course, smile and nod and agree to everything she says, regardless of whether or not I share or even understand her concern. One simply does not talk back to one's landlady. And most definitely not to Mrs Hudson.

It is quite telling that she would assume I’d be the one wielding the whip in our relationship. When in actual fact, after the incident at the strip club, I haven’t so much as caught a glimpse of John naked, let alone got to touch him - for pleasure or for pain. It's a rare occasion when he even removes his jumper during our encounters.

No, it is all about me and my penis. Apart from the kissing and the fellatios, I have no physical contact with him whatsoever. Not even outside the flat, when there is absolutely nothing sexual about the situation.

For instance, yesterday, when we were at a crime scene - a very messy decapitation at a bowling alley - I ventured to grab John by the arm to pull him closer to me, only to make a humorous remark - something about heads rolling - which I thought unsuitable for Lestrade's ears. John shied away from me like my hand had burnt him.

I thank Mrs Hudson for salvaging the bag and push her gently but firmly out of the door.

The old girl has no idea how clear she has made things for me.

 

///

 

Later that evening, as I lie lazily on the sofa, amusing myself with the stupidity of people on some barely-reality show on telly, John sits down at the other end and pulls my legs onto his lap. Eyes on the telly, he starts to rub his hand casually over my groin.

”Again, John? You fellated me only this morning.”

”I can get you off while you watch your show,” he offers, quite matter-of-factly. At times I can only marvel what has become of our lives. ”Won't make a sound.”

”Or, instead,” I counter, “why don’t we both get naked, you sodomise me thoroughly, and we make a right racket of it?”

The hand slips away in an instant, leaving my cock in a state of deep dissatisfaction.

”I thought we'd been through this.”

I swing my legs off him and sit up. “No, actually we haven’t. As pleasant as this, this--”

“Arrangement?” John suggests, with a wry smile.

“If you will,” I accept, with a deadly look at him. “As pleasant as this _arrangement_ has been for the past few days, I must say it has left me feeling somewhat dissatisfied. I have already expressed my wish you have you inside me. Preferably my anus, but I’ll settle for oral penetration, if that is more acceptable to you.”

John jumps up from the sofa and flees to the kitchen. He tugs down his jumper, as if his erection would go away simply by hiding it. “No, Sherlock. I’m sorry, but no.”

For a moment I sit and I consider. Then, seeing no other way out of this, I start to undress myself. Fortunately, I only have my pajama bottoms and dressing gown on, so it hardly takes any time at all. John, however, isn’t impressed by my swiftness.

“Sherlock…” he says very quietly, when I follow him into the kitchen to stand naked in front of him. “Please put your clothes back on.”

I shake my head and open my arms. “I lack your level of experience, I’m not ashamed to admit it, so this - my body - is all I have to offer you. I have offered it to you once already, and you turned it down. But after all that’s happened since, I’m hoping you might reconsider.” I try not to look at him too pleadingly, but my voice cracks and betrays me. “So if there’s any part of this that you find at all desirable, you’re welcome to it. My body is yours, John, to be used for your pleasure.” I glance down my chest. “It should be suited for the purpose. I asked.”

John blinks. “You _asked_? Who did you ask?”

“Visitor Number Three. He seemed keen, at least.”

John, on the other hand, doesn’t. He turns away from me, then back again, his mouth open in a mixture of amusement and horror.

“For fuck’s sake!” he finally exclaims, sounding a bit worked up, which doesn’t bode well for me. His points his hand at various parts of my naked body, evidently unable to choose which bit deserves his attention the most. I do have a suggestion, but I keep it to myself.

“You - this - all of it…” He lets his hand drop. “You’re a _god_ , Sherlock!”

I frown. “Fictitious?”

John steps up to me, though still not touching me.

“I mean you’re perfect. Impossibly, amazingly, frustratingly perfect.”

He looks me in the eye. I know I should be feeling something, that this should be an emotional moment for the both of us. But all I can think of is that the front of his trousers is touching the tip of my penis.

“Of course I want you, Sherlock. Of course. Believe me, I want to do things to you so badly that it scares the shit out of me.”

On that note, I leave him standing in the kitchen and go to collect the assortment of sex aids, which I’ve removed from the plastic bag, cleansed thoroughly and placed in a large wooden box. It is a perfectly presentable looking chest, safely hidden in plain sight and within easy reach.

John just stares, when I pull out one of the dildos. It is long and thin, far slimmer than the rest of them, which are, quite frankly, ludicrous. I suspect it's meant for anal stimulation, and what the package refers to as ’double penetration’, whatever that may be. It would be perfectly suited for John to stretch me open with, and I tell him so.

However, as I feared, John is far too pale to be excited.

”Where did you get those? You told me that lot was all gone, out the window.”

I fill him in, duly noting his level of anxiety as he hears just how well aware Mrs Hudson is of our sexual escapades.

”By the way, she thinks I'm using these things on you,” I say and watch him twitch. ”Made me promise not to hurt you too badly. Little does she know. No chance for bondage and discipline at 221B Baker Street, when I can’t even get you to fuck me.”

John stares at me, horrified. Then his gaze shifts to the bag.

”And is that... Is that something you would want to do?”

”Naturally.”

First he swallows, then nods.

”So, the discipline bit... Would you use the whip or the--?”

Now it is my turn to stare, equally horrified.

”Wait. Would _I_ use?” I sense we're not part of the same conversation any more. ”I meant you haven't even agreed to insert anything in me, neither plastic nor flesh, let alone tie me up and and fuck the life out of me. Why would I use any of these...?”

I study John’s face for a moment before continuing.

”You would have gone through with it,” I state the blindingly obvious, for I feel it needs to be voiced out. ”You would have let me beat you. But not because you'd enjoy it.”

John is wringing his hands and looking very uncomfortable while trying to be brave about it.

”If that's the sort of thing you're into, then fine. It's all... fine.”

”No, John, it's _not_ fine. Why on earth would you agree to something that gives you no pleasure, simply because you think I...”

And the answer is, again, obvious.

”John, you owe me nothing. Do you understand?” I watch him nod, but it’s hardly convincing. ”You insist on making amends, pleasuring me in compensation for something you’re not even guilty of, and it’s driving me insane! Understand this, John: you did nothing wrong, you owe me nothing. The only thing you can give me is a good hard seeing-to! And if you want a thrashing, I'll be more than happy to provide one for you. Or if it's my behind you want to whip, then by all means, go ahead. I have no preference.”

John looks at me, clearly unable to believe my proclamation.

”You don't care, either way?”

”Need I remind you that until quite recently, I had no sex life. No sexual identity, no preferences, nothing.”

”Until you made it all up,” John sighs, repeating the same tune.

”No. Until you, John.” I try to grab hold of him, but he keeps slipping away from me. ”I don't know whether I like giving or receiving pain. I don't know if I like to _bottom_ or _top_. I don't even know if I like men or women. As I've already told you, this really isn't my area, John.”

”Then... do you want to stop? This, whatever this is. Do you want to stop?”

I am at a loss. How much more simply can I possibly put this? Honestly, John. A little help wouldn't go amiss here.

”No, I _don't_ want to stop. I want to do dirty, nasty, disgusting things with you. I want to make you moan and whimper and scream. I want to taste you, consume you, every inch of you. And I want _you_ to do whatever you could possibly want to me. Fuck my every orifice, tie me up, hurt me, use me. Whatever you want. I want _you_ , John. I thought that was obvious.”

John is not breathing, I notice.

”John?” His chest shows no sign of movement. ”Breathe, John.”

After an eternity, even though in reality it only takes a few seconds, John empties his lungs, then gulps air like a man drowning.

”Please don't say such things, Sherlock. Not unless you really mean it.”

As I do really mean it, I offer him no retractions.

”Since that first night, John, there's been little else I've been able to think about. Apart from cases, naturally.”

”Naturally,” John concurs, but I have a feeling he is being less than sincere. ”You do realise I still have nightmares of what I did to you that night? With the ball gag and the duct tape and...”

I've fished the said ball gag out of the bag and am just about to test it on my mouth.

”Yes, that! I'm... I'm disgusted with what I... And I could never, _ever_...” His speech turns into muttering, but I get the gist of it. And it is up to me to set it right.

”You know, I do too.”

”What?”

”Dream of that night.” I pause. ”They're not nightmares, though.”

”No?”

I shake my head. ”In my dreams you follow through with your threats and actually bugger me. Well, first you fuck my mouth, then my arse. Sometimes you even go for a second round, which is actually rather unhygienic, come to think of it. But it's a dream, so...”

“Oh, God, Sherlock…”

I take the box and walk over to him, press my naked body flat against him and lean to whisper in his ear.

”And just so you know: that night you tied me up, I did bring myself to orgasm afterwards. While you went to open the door. I made quite a mess on the sheets, actually. It was possibly the most intense climax I have ever experienced. Although that last fellatio you performed on me definitely set a new benchmark.”

I can feel John's body soften, relax, with every word I say. And when I finish, he is looking up at me with such relief and gratitude, that one would think I have pardoned him on death row.

”But I can't... I don't want to hurt you.”

”Oh yes, you do.” I give him a grin, narrowing my eyes knowingly. “You want to do all kinds of devious things to me, don't you? You're just too good a man to admit it.”I place a soft kiss on his earlobe.”You want to hurt me, John. And more importantly, I want to let you. So shall we?”

To my joy, John gives the tiniest of nods. It is good enough for me.

”I'm going straight to hell, aren't I?” he mutters. “Straight to hell, without passing go and collecting my two hundred pounds.”

With a broad smile on my face and the box of toys under my arm, I proceed to guide him into my bedroom.

 

///

 

When we step over the threshold and I push the door shut behind me, John is looking so uncomfortable that I feel I need to do something to ease his pain. So I set the box of toys down and rummage through it once more. The black bondage hood is easy enough to find amidst all that plastic and rubber.

Before he has time to stop me, I slip it on. The hood falls over my eyes and ears, disconnecting me from my surroundings. The zip is open, so I breathe through my mouth a couple of times to calm myself down, then start fastening the straps at the back of my head, but with little luck. After a while of blind fumbling, I feel John reach up and do them for me.

”What are you doing?” he asks, even though he must know by now.

”Whatever you want me to,” I answer as I turn towards him. I drop down onto my knees, blindly and hence rather ungraciously.

”Sherlock... You can’t... I won't last for long, if you...”

Holding onto John’s legs, I tilt my head back and open my mouth in a way that, I hope, will come across as seductive. For the longest time he is completely still, completely silent, and I already fear I'm being rejected once again. But then there’s some movement in front of me. I can’t hear the zip being opened, not with the hood on, but I can smell it: that distinctive muskiness that I haven’t been allowed to enjoy since the stage of the strip club. I push my head forward, try to capture his penis with my mouth. He won’t allow it, but he doesn’t back away entirely, which I consider to be a positive sign.

”Dear god, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how amazing your mouth looks in that thing? How on earth am I supposed to say no to that?”

“Then please, John. Let me taste you.

“Jesus…”

John finally abandons the deities and lets out a long, deep sigh. For a moment all is still again. Then, suddenly, I can feel the tip of his penis press against my lips. His hand comes to rest on the back of my head and he uses it to keep me still as he pushes himself into my eagerly awaiting mouth.

It is absolutely delicious. With my eyesight and most of my hearing gone, I can focus more closely on the taste and smell and feel of John’s cock. I scribble down mental notes of everything I observe, anxious not to overlook anything that might prove valuable at some point in the future. Because the moment John lets out that first moan, I know I want there to be a future. For us. I want to do this to John again, I want to do plenty more to him. It all matters: every twirl of my tongue that I try out and every noise he makes in response, it all needs to be catalogued, stored and saved. To make room for it all, I may have to delete bits of the history of humankind - the renaissance is overrated anyhow - but I feel the John file is well worth losing a century or two.

I bring my hands up to his hips to steady myself, concentrate on breathing through the tiny holes in the mask right under my nose - for no air is bound to get past that fat piece of flesh in my mouth - and then I start to suck him.

On principle, I know the procedure and am fairly certain I will be able to give him a certain degree of pleasure. Still, I'm actually quite relieved to feel his hand on the back of my head, guiding me, controlling me.

”Oh, God...” he sighs and suddenly his hold becomes more forceful. He is moving my head faster and faster, ramming his cock against the back of my throat. This really won't take very long.

I try to pull back, but John won't allow that. I find that he wasn’t joking when he said that he would take me whether I wanted or not. He is fucking my mouth hard and fierce, and I fear I may either dislocate my jaw or pass out, if he keeps this up.

Also, I may well come without even touching myself.

Then John stops, yanks his cock out of my mouth and lets go of my head.

”God, Sherlock... I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to...”

“John, I beg of you. If you stop now I may have to kill you. And I’d hate to lose you.”

“So… it’s all right?” He moves closer to me again, rubs the wet tip of his penis against my open lips. In reply to his question, I try to snatch his cock back into my mouth, but John keeps me at arm’s length. “No, I can’t... I need to….” John breathes deeply. “Sherlock, if you want me to have something hard to put inside you, get on that bed. Now.”

Apparently deciding my legs obey too slowly, John pulls me up on my feet and pushes me face down on the bed. I crawl blindly forwards, feeling my own throbbing cock brush against the sheets. I'm dripping what I can only suspect is an obscene amount of pre-come, and all I want to do is grab my cock and pull myself off. But somehow I think that particular avenue of pleasure is forbidden to me.

”The ropes. Are they still there?” John asks with a raspy voice, and I can feel him brush past me as he moves to the head of the bed.

”Yes,” I reply, even though he must have already found them, hanging off the sides of the bed.

”Right. So. I want you face down on your knees, hands above your head, legs spread wide.”

I do as instructed and crawl into position. It is surprisingly difficult without being able to see, but all the more arousing. John ties me up quickly, and if it weren't for the slight trembling of his hands, one would think him rather accustomed to tying naked men to beds before shagging them silly.

”Right,” he says again, and I feel his weight get off the bed. ”You'll need some preparation. And I... I'll need some distraction, so this won't be over right bloody now.”

I can’t hear him apply the lubricant, but can certainly feel the cool slickness as he runs his fingers down the cleft between my bottocks. Good God, how is it even possible to want something, someone, so desperately? I buck against his hand, try to get his fingers to slip inside me, but John takes his time. He rubs and circles my entrance for what seems like all eternity, before putting on more lubricant and leaning forwards to whisper, “I’ll go as slowly as you want, Sherlock. Just tell me if it’s too much, all right?”

“Of course I won’t,” I snap back at him. “I want you to fuck my arse the same way you fucked my mouth, without holding back. I want it _hard_ , John.”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John breathes and kisses my neck. “You’re doing it again. Saying things like that, in that voice. If you don’t stop, I swear this’ll be over before it even started.”

I’m about to remind him of the ball-gag, but decide against it. This way I may still have a chance to live out my fantasy of having John fuck my mouth and my arse by turns.

“I’ll be quiet if you just shove your fingers inside me and stop asking for my permission at every turn.”

And without asking or even warning, John does just that. His finger pushes inside in one agonizingly slow thrust. I gasp and press my hooded head against the sheets, tear at the ropes around my wrists to push my arse back and bury John’s finger deeper into me.

He interprets this as encouragement - quite correctly - and soon adds a second finger.

“Sherlock?” he asks, as I moan out my pleasure. Again I push back as far as the ropes allow. “You really weren’t kidding, were you? You like having my fingers up your arse, don’t you?” And he curls said fingers so that they press against my prostate with precision only a doctor could provide. “God, if only you could see yourself. Tied down and with your perfect arse high up. You’re so fucking beautiful like this, I can’t even…” With his fingers still rubbing against my prostate, he leans down and bites his teeth into my buttock. I cry out from a mixture of pain and surprise and so immense pleasure that I fear I may be close to losing my mind.

Then his fingers start to move, not just rub and twist, but slide in and out, first slowly, then faster and faster. Again I let out sounds that are far from dignified. John is fucking me with his fingers and he is not holding back any more. No, he is thrusting his hand into so hard he is practically hitting my arse every time his fingers enter me.

Just as I start to pray for more fingers, possibly even a fist, his hand is suddenly gone, and I’m left feeling open and empty.

Then I hear the soft clatter as the toys move around in their box. John is looking for something, possibly just browsing, trying to decide which device to use on me next. I find this notion impossibly arousing.

I know which item John has chosen even before he pushes it between my cheeks. It is not the long and slim dildo which I suggested, but a massive black vibrator, which I originally ordered with the intention of hiding it in the flat so that John would find it and be very, very afraid. I confess, I was too afraid myself even to try and insert it into me for fear of doing permanent damage.

Now the monstrosity is rubbing against my perineum, its motor humming ominously.

“John,” I start cautiously. “I know I implied that I wouldn’t mind you getting a bit rough, but I don’t think I’ll be able to handle--”

“It’s not going inside you,” John cuts in, mercifully. I feel the tension escape my body. “I just wanted to see what it would look like against your skin. It’s gorgeous, Sherlock. That black mask, and the ropes, and this huge black cock - all against that porcelain skin of yours… Fuck.”

He shifts the vibrator a little, just an inch lower, so that it hits my scrotum, and again I’m gasping from ecstasy. My sac is already so tight I fear it’s about to burst, and now with the vibrator buzzing gently against it, that long black cock pushing down between my thighs… It’s too much. It’s much too much. So I tell John that. Or possibly I just moan something incomprehensible.

Luckily for me, John seems to get my meaning even without actual words, because the next thing I notice is that there's something quite different being pressed against me. Something that is neither plastic nor vibrating. I press my mouth against the sheets waiting for the pain to hit me.

It doesn't.

Instead I can feel John stretch out on top of me and reach for the straps on the bondage hood, start to unbuckle them.

”John?”

He pulls the hood off, then wipes the hair from my face and grabs a tight hold of my head.

”If we do this, I need to be able to see you. And I need you to know who it is that's pushing into you. All right?”

”Yes,” I breathe out. ”John...”

But to my disappointment, nothing seems to be happening.

”Do you know how many times I dreamed of this? Having you stretched out naked in front of me. There for me to take. Tied up and helpless and _mine_.” John needs to take a deep breath. ”All that beauty, that brilliant mind, all of it mine. To do with as I please. You don't get it, do you, Sherlock?”

”Yes,” I try to tell him. Anything to get his cock inside me, now. But John isn't done with speaking.

”I'm just a normal bloke, and yet I get to be here, doing this, to you. I get to shag Sherlock bloody Holmes.” His voice cracks. “It's unbelievable. Just unbelievable.”

”Yes…”

“Tell me again, Sherlock. Please. Tell me you want this.”

I am so far gone I can barely understand what he is asking of me. Somehow I manage to utter the words, “Fuck me, John… I need you to… Please…”

“God, Sherlock…”

I gasp from the pain as he finally enters me. My flesh is burning, stretching, tearing open. For him. For John. All of it for John. _Yes_.

He takes no pity on me, makes no allowances, but pummels into me hard and deep, his nails scratching marks on my hips as he holds me still. His cock feels enormous, and I bite my tongue to keep from screaming that it's too much, that he has to stop. But I say nothing, and he keeps pushing deeper, dissecting me with his prick.

Then there's another shot pain. Somewhere that is not my arse. I find it hard to conceive there is such a place, as my entire attention has been focused on only the bottom part of me. But yes, it appears I do still have an upper body, and a head, and a face. And it has just been slapped.

”Look at me,” I hear John say.

It is only when I open my eyes that I realise I'm not on kneeling face down any more. I have no recollection of being flipped over, but here I am. My hands are still tied but they are now crossed above my head, and there is still an impossibly thick cock rammed up my arse, but now John is facing me. He looks flushed and out of breath and so utterly debauched.

He leans down to kiss me gently, less hungrily than before.

”Sherlock, are you all right?”

”Yes,” I manage to hiss.

”Do you want me to go on?”

I say 'yes' again but am unsure if any sound actually comes out of my mouth.

”I'm going to come, and when I do, I want to see you. Your eyes. Please. Can you keep your eyes open for me, Sherlock?”

John wraps his hand around my leaking, hurting cock, and I feel my eyes blow wide open.

”Yes. Yes.” I stare at the man inside me without any intention of closing my eyes ever again. ”John... I think I'm going to... I'm going to... John...”

He starts pounding into me again, harder and harder, almost brutally so. And all the while his hand pumps my cock in time with his thrusts.

As I feel John lose that rhythm and see his face distort above me, all I can think of is that I must remember it, must collect and store every piece of it, that I must preserve this moment and how beautiful he looks when he comes. Yes. Yes. All I can think about when I come into John’s hand with an undignified moan is 'yes'.

Yes. To everything.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, all you lovely people who have read this far. Please let me know what you thought. It would mean the world to me :)
> 
> Next stop: the epilogue!


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted this originally at the end of last chapter, even though I had intended it to be chapter 8.
> 
> So here's the very short and silly epilogue to end this whole silly story :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! *hugs*

John knows not to disturb me with bodily matters when my mind is on a case, but even when we're investigating a double-murder and standing in the middle of the deceased couple's living room, I keep getting these flashes.

John tilts his head in a certain way to look at the blood spatter on the white sofa, and suddenly I see him doing the same little tilt but with my cock in his mouth. Or he happens to lick his lips while examining the bodies, and I find myself thinking how that tongue pushes inside my arse and licks me open for him.

I try to blink the images away and focus on the work. I really do try.

But of course, then John sucks in his cheeks and puckers his lips - an innocent enough habit that he has when mulling something over - and all I can think about is pressing my mouth against his and kissing him right there, over the brutally mauled bodies of Mr and Mrs Merriwell.

The case is almost interesting, at least for a brief while. The couple has evidently been killed by a large dog - or possibly a small wolf, as Lestrade keeps insisting - but the doors are all locked, the keys are all accounted for. Their pet dog, Button, however, is nowhere to be found.

What makes the case worth my while is that Button happens to be a chihuahua.

As I stand next to John at the crime scene, I find I'm only mildly concerned about the effect this newly-added, somewhat more carnal dimension to our relationship will have on my work. It takes me perhaps a bit longer than necessary to solve the case, but the combined total of time spent on thinking about having sex with John amounts to mere minutes, despite the varied and rather vivid imagery I manage to conjure up in such short time.

The flashes affect my mental processes in a beneficial way, as well. For instance, I crack the case in question while picturing John holding me down and buggering me quite brutally while I’m wearing a heavy dog collar around my neck - much like the one found by the back door of the apparently happy, though dead, couple's house. Judging by the pictures on the mantelpiece, the collar is twice the size of Button.

”Are we done here?” I ask Lestrade, as we are all gathered cozily in his office, only an hour after I agreed to take the case.

”I think so,” Lestrade sighs. “We've apprehended the Merriwells' dog walker, and he's more or less confessed already. They're typing up the statement as we speak.” Lestrade slumps into his chair with a groan, clearly in need of caffeine and smarter underlings. ”We found the dogs, too, at his house. The rottweilers were out back, still traces of blood in their fur, but the Merriwells' little handbag mutt... You wouldn't believe half the stuff he had there for it: a bloody castle to sleep in and more toys than I had as a kid!”

”What people wouldn't do for their pets - or, in this case, other people's pets,” I say, and slip a pair of handcuffs into John's jacket pocket. From the corner of my eye, I can see his face twitch, then he nods in silent agreement. I almost wish Sergeant Donovan knew to what good use her cuffs will be put tonight.

“But to kill two people just because they thought they’d walk their own dog from now on,” Lestrade says, shaking his head. “I’m not that attached to my own wife to go murdering for her!”

“Let us hope her latest affair isn’t, either,” I can’t help adding. Lestrade gives me an outraged look, but I won’t let him pursue the matter further. I am much too happy and content to get mixed up in anyone’s domestic troubles. ”Time to go, I think. John?”

”The master calls, Dr Watson,” Sally snarls, grinning as subtly as a pimp. ”You better run along now. Don't want to miss the bone he might throw you.”

”No, I really wouldn't,” says John with a broad smile and shoots me a look that makes my skin tingle. “I believe we have plans.”

As we step out of Lestrade’s office, I make sure Sally sees me take John’s hand and place it firmly on my bottom, give it a little squeeze. The gesture is obscene and to the point, leaving no room for ambiguity. No more jokes, no more innuendo. People will definitely talk, and I say let them.

I want them to make no mistake: I intend to be taken by this man, have him thrust his thick prick deep inside me this very night as I lie naked before him on the kitchen table. Or on the hardwood floor. Or pressed against the wall. Or against any hard surface, really. I want him to pound into me long and hard, without mercy. I want to be unable to sit tomorrow, preferably the day after, too. I want to cry out. I want to bleed. I want to come with him inside me.

Because as it turns out, I do have a preference when it comes to sex. I suspect I’ve had it for quite some time, although it has taken me embarrassingly long to realise it.

My preference is not of the norm, just as I claimed, and it is only four letters long.

And he is simply extraordinary.

*****

THE END


End file.
